


In Eyes Of Innocence

by Abby_Ebon



Category: Angel: the Series, Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-07-10
Updated: 2012-07-10
Packaged: 2017-11-09 13:49:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 32,136
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/456143
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Abby_Ebon/pseuds/Abby_Ebon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Calileane's prompt. Harry/Angel SLASH ; Harry is sentenced to go through the Veil of Death; He walks in from the side of the Wizarding World, and walks out on the Other Side...with baby Connor in his arms.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Demon Blood

**Author's Note:**

> This is calileane's prompt, as given to me as follows;
> 
> Harry Potter/ Angel, Harry/Angel (slash), Harry is sentenced to go through the Veil of Death. He walks in from the side of the Wizarding World, and walks on the Other Side..... It happens just as Holtz run through a portal with baby Connor. When Holtz arrive where he wanted to be, baby Connor isn't in his arms anymore. When Harry senses the portal closing behind him, he has a baby in his arms and many people in front of him, one of which is Angel.

"What have you done to Astoria, Draco Malfoy?" Harry hissed the words, his wand tip at the pale throat of the man he'd called friend for five years this coming spring. Draco's wide blue eyes gleamed with fear (not of Harry or his wand, but for the woman he loved and Harry hadn't seen for six months) Draco stood his ground and did not reach for the wand at his side. There was trust between them now; it could not be undone so easily.

" _Nothing_ , I swear to you, I've done nothing to harm her! Harry, please, you must help her. I beg you." Stormy pale eyes pleaded, and slender shoulders hunched inward, to protect against a hurt that Harry could guess the source of. He put his wand away, feeling the part of the betrayer was not in his nature. Draco let Harry inside easily, and Harry felt shamed that he had ever doubted Draco. The stairs creaked, and Harry looked up to see who he had been looking for; Astoria in a nightgown, her body pale and sickly, all skin and bones, but her belly grew with a healthy life within.

Harry hadn't known.

"Hello, Harry…I've been expecting you, though you came a little earlier then what I'd predicted…he's right, though, he's done nothing but get me pregnant. It's a boy, by the way – sorry to spoil the surprise – Harry…why have you come?" Astoria asked of him, soft voiced and calm, she'd taken a vacation, and in ten years of working with Harry, he'd never known her to do such a thing. Now he knew her to be with child, but his instincts screamed something was wrong, and his sight did not fool him now. He flushed, cheeks burning, and looked down with lowered eyes. He'd come here in angry suspicion, ready to kill his partners husband, now his was shamed, but no less wary.

"To help you…" Harry protested softly, a familiar plea in his voice. It was the very same Draco had just now begged him with.

"There is nothing you can do, it is my life - or the child's - and I have chosen." An heir would be everything to Astoria, whose sister was barren and whose husband had no siblings. So often this was now the fate of once proud pure bloods, do die together husband and wife and childless. Or one died in child bed while the other lived on half-dead without them. It was why Harry, engaged now for seven years, refused to marry – for to marry meant children and Harry wanted none if it meant Ginny would die.

"There must be something, is the child killing you?" Harry asked what Draco could not, and though he was pale and drawn, Draco could not have asked this question of his wife, Seer that she was she would answer with only truth.

"No, my blood is. I am part demon, Harry, but mostly not. It is the demon that is forcing me to chose, my child or I. The body rejects the blood, and the blood rejects the child. I will have my child." Steel eyes dared him to refuse her right, and Harry could not, for years had given him some wisdom.

"We…we must be able to do something." Draco argued, and Harry silently agreed, in this world of witches and wizards and magic, there was no reason that a child should be born while its mother suffered and died. Yet magic did not work that way, it could not fix what had been done over generations of wizards and witches breeding. Magic can not take away what gifts it gives.

"No, there is nothing." Astoria was at peace with that answer, though Harry had never seen her give up anything to anyone in the ten years he had lived and worked around her. She was just as stubborn and powerful as Harry, and when Ron and Hermione had paired off, his friends still – it had been Astoria who had befriended him, and Ginny had joked one night over tea that Astoria was the girl-version of Harry, and Astoria had taken it for compliment.

"There is something, your demon heritage – give it all to me, every trace. It won't hurt me, I can't have a child, and if it would save you and the baby, I would have it." Often over the years Harry had been forced to let the Phoenix tears in his blood heal what they could, and while few knew of the Basilisk venom that made him immune to what the tears could not heal, Astoria knew. Surely such things in him could nullify the demon blood, yet demons were primal creatures, as old as the Earth itself. It was a risk Harry would take for his partner, he did not want another given to him or trained up, for ten years they'd worked well together, and Harry would not let her simply die and give up like this. One living and one dying was not a fair trade. If he tried and his life was forfeit, at least Astoria and her son would survive.

"Blood receiving of heritage is labeled illegal without written permission from the Ministry of Magic, it's a Dark Ritual, and I do not have that sort of time to go through courts and legal loop holes." Astoria was scathing as she shot down the one chance he offered up to her, Draco drew in a breath as if to protest but wisely chose to remain silent as Harry spoke to poke and prod Astoria into seeing things his way - maybe. It could not hurt to try to convince her.

"We'll do it anyway, right now. You've made your choice, and I've made up my mind." Astoria lifted her eyes to the heavens, but did not speak. She is reminded that Harry could be as rash and stubborn as she is, not yet did she grasp the whole of what that meant.

"No, Harry, we are Auror and they will know its demon taint in your blood the moment they set their wands upon you." There is fear there, fear for him, even as she does not know what he will do, she knows what he intends - and perhaps that is enough of a warning for someone else. Not her. Harry looks away and she thinks he has given up, that he will go away and let her have her child.

She should have known better. It seems an accident how Harry turns away and then Draco, in a fury of old, whispers the slicing curse – his wand outstretched. Unthinking, for it is second nature, Astoria sends her magic to Harry to quicken the healing and when her magic touches him, his magic is waiting and wide open as no wizard or witch should ever be. Ten years is a long time to know him, but she can not leave him like that, exposed and vulnerable.

He takes the demon blood from her, greedy and painfully wide open so she feels nothing, and she can not stop him because if she tries she'll rip him to pieces with her magic, and he is blind and deaf and dumb to all but what he is doing. He is helpless – if she was to strike at him, to take back what she gives unthinking, he would die – his magic torn from him, and she cries out in rage and fear for him.

Harry echoes her scream, but in his is true pain. His magic is open and it runs up and down and out like the tide, in and out, he's trying to collect himself, to close up and barricade his magic within himself. It is too late, _they know_ – they sense him, they must – he is too much, too powerful to ever ignore.

Harry is crumpled on the floor at the bottom of the staircase, a broken thing but his magic closed up. Astoria fears him to be dead.

Then it is too late, too soon, because soft pops and creaks in the flooring are surrounding them, and wizards in Ministry black with wand tips aglow are firing spells and asking questions later.

" _No – you don't know what you're doing! Stop…!"_ She knows as Draco tries to block the way between them and the stairway to her - and she know what the likes of this will look like, but black mist sneaks into her vision. It isn't really there, but it sends her crashing to the floor like sleeping dust.

"What –wait, stop it…what are you doing?" She hears Draco holler, as everything goes dim and soft.

"Harry Potter will come with us. His actions dictate that he is a Dark Wizard, come quietly and you will be placed in a secure cell until your trial." It is the worst sort of thing she could have heard, and she clings to it and feels tears and hopes only that she'll wake up and it won't be too late to save Harry.

0-0-0-0-0

A hood was over his head, his hands were unbound, but his wand…his wand was broken, he had heard the snap of its wood and in that moment the bond between wizard and wand was gone. Harry breathed though his mouth, the sweaty and dark cloth clung to his moist tongue and lips. His face was folded tightly together, as if it must fit the hood rather then the hood be made to fit him.

He had gone with them without a fuss, guilt swimming in his gut. His trial, he was sure, would be hurried but fair with the media breathing down the ministry's neck, but surely – _surely_ – he would be given the chance to speak? Harry closed his eyes and breathed, jostled and jolted down the carriage street, events and moments framed his damnation in his mind. It had seemed like such a little thing, so easy, and it saved two lives and only damned him in the end.

"Harry Potter, for the aiding of a known Dark Wizard bearing the Dark Mark of the former Dark Lord Voldemort, and working the Dark Arts upon a mother and her unborn child, you are hereby sentenced to walk into the Veil of Death." It's said in a hush as they hurry the rocking carriage down the streets. They walk him into a small booth, three crowded around to subdue him, a wand tip in his back. It's the only warning he gets, under the hood and with them he could be any low life, but as they sink into the ground, he knows he's doomed and damned himself in this one night.

Voldemort may not have any followers left among the Ministry, but there are those who hold a grudge against Harry, that their hopes did not see the light of law. They have him now where they want him, and the hood over his head is yanked back and Harry stumbled toward the only destination he was allowed. He straightened from the cowardly and undignified lapse, but the wand at his back warned him not to move abruptly, or turn his head to see his accusers. None the less, he had a good idea of who they were.

"What do you think they will do to you when they've found out what you've done?" Harry asked softly into the tomb like silence, only rasping and wheezing breathing could be heard. It was his only answer, and it was answer enough. Perhaps they find irony in this, the Veil of Death his godfather fell though will be now his own undoing.

He takes a step to the ultimate end, so no wizard or witch will bloody their wand or hand with his death. The veil whispers and an unfelt wind ripple the glossy cloth, like a lake stirring in a storm. Harry does not beg for another chance, does not look back, and when the second step puts him on even footing with the Veil of Death on its dais, he thinks only of his unbowed back.

Eager now, the Veil reaches for him, and when he breaths out – it swallows him up. There is nothing but glimmering whiteness, it blinds him and he thinks; _is this is what it's like to die?_

From the Veil of Death, there is no whispering answer.


	2. Blind Justice

Harry Potter is not dead, he realizes this when he feels a warm and wiggling weight in his arms. He opens eyes he had not realized he had closed; an infant's awed blue eyes looked back upon him. It gurgles and coos up at him and he thinks he understands his mother's sacrifice, thinks he understands at long last the reason a woman would struggle to become a mother. There is only that single moment of peace, and then he is aware with a wizard's instincts that they are not alone. Harry looks away from the baby, pressing it closer to offer what protection he can, as he takes in the sight in front of him.

Men with guns are nothing to fear for a wizard, _normally_ , but with his hands and arms full of a baby… he reaches for his magic without the focus of a wand. It is the second time in less then an hour he has done so, using his magic as if it isn't his life-blood, and he knows that what he is doing is all the more dangerous for it.

His eyes blaze emerald green and magic reacts to his feelings, protective and fearful; it lashes outward in a visible display of gold and green. Guns disappear, or are flung from arms, and people take careful steps backward, hands raised in surrender. There is a look to them that Harry recognizes, he's made enemies this night (for wherever he is, that hasn't changed) and they will not forget or forgive him this insult.

Harry, reckless and wild with magic filling up the air he breaths, only grins savagely back into the promise of revenge lurking in frightened eyes.

" _No harm will come to this child_." He says it aloud, though magic snatches his voice and makes him heard to the unseen that lurks and sees and hears. Harry can sense it, this presence.

They flee, the men before him, weaponless and fearful with the seeds of revenge seething in their hearts. Harry does the only thing he can, because the child isn't safe yet – not while that _thing_ watching and waiting as it sits out of sight, his blood humming in his body with the warning.

His attention is turned to the _thing_ holding the Veil of Death open behind him. It's a offer to undo what has been done, Harry knows he can go back though the Veil and back to his world, but not with the child, and that's the price of the choice he isn't willing to make. Not with the presence of a thing watching and waiting for him to let his guard down so the child will be defenseless. It needs him, needs a protector, more then anyone needs Harry on his side of the Veil. The Veil senses his choice, it seems, as it winks out of sight, gone but here at the edge of everything, hovering and waiting for him. He's aware of it as he has never been, because his magic is a wild and beating thing like his other heart. Only where magic is, can the Veil be seen, and Harry is a wizard, yes, but he is only one wizard.

 _Only one_ …the Veil agrees with him, whispering of choices and choosing of this world that did not echo upon his own. Wizards here have all but died out, because they chose to stand alone against the demons and dark, and humans grew and built, ignorant still. A man had chosen to go through the Veil to a worse world, and taken a child who had not wanted to go with him, but wanted someone – a protector, and Harry had gone though the Veil and decided to go where he was wanted and needed, and the child had needed and wanted him. Time and place were meaningless to the Veil, but choice …it is what it feeds upon, and power, the power of choosing.

It is the Veil between Worlds, not only of Death.

All this Harry knows because he is a wizard, the only wizard alive here and the Veil feeds on his magic but must, after all, give something back. There are others with _magic_ on this world, but they have forgotten, forgotten so much that what they know is mostly borrowed from the demons they are supposed to fight but have forgotten even that…and those born with magic do not know what they are, for few and fewer are born with magic to those with magic. For they are used terribly by a world that will not wait, that needs too much and too soon - often they do not survive to have children of their own for they die as children.

This child too, Harry knows, is special; it is why the Veil will allow him to protect it. It is a child born from death by magic and miracle both.

" _I protect him_." Harry says, agreeing out loud with the Veil. Magic again manifests his words, makes them heard to those who have knowledge of magic, of the demons and the dark, and this child, he has made himself heard to all those who can hear in this world, but he can not help it.

Finally, the presence, the thing that has been watching and waiting and listening, makes itself seen and known to Harry.

"You know not what you have done, wizard. Worlds will burn and blood will be spilt for that child's life blood. You have only delayed, putting yourself in the way. I am Sahjhan, and I will find out who you are…." Pale and disfigured, it's face a scared ruin that could be markings or burns, Harry realized that while this creature could be seen and heard it could not be felt, it was not here or there, but like a ghost slipped from sight.

Gone as quickly as it had let itself be seen, Harry feels as if it fears him, and hates him for that fear it feels.

The babe in his arms gurgles softly, as if to sooth Harry - who knows infants are sensitive to the world around them - and so he reigns in his magic, pulling it back within himself. It does not cry, and Harry wonders if it only feels safe now, in his arms, even as powers pull and twist about the babe like the waves of an uncaring sea.

Harry wonders what the baby's name is.

"My son, give him to me…!" The speaker's face was a distorted and twisted thing that snarled into sudden reality. _Vampire_ , every bone in Harry's body screamed at him to move, to get away, but he doesn't move as predatory amber eyes narrow upon him. His teeth are sharp and threatening, but Harry knows just how much he has the upper hand if things are as they seem. Tears had seeped down that terrible face. If this is a father, he won't risk the child's life.

"What is his name?" Harry asks soothing and calm, his voice sooths the beast from the face that had threatened him, the vampire breaths out – a habit of centuries and not need – and his face is human smooth.

"Connor, his name is _Connor._ " He has dark hair and low brows, brooding as a thinker, but his cheeks and chin descend him from unnamed aristocrats. This vampire is reasoning with him, suddenly calm in the face of a reasonable question. Harry is admittedly curious of him, for this sort of behavior in a vampire was unheard of in his own world – once focused on bloodlust and a fight, a vampire was near unstoppable, even if its intentions had not been to harm.

"That's better, and yours?" Harry continues, as if he expected nothing less then thinking and rational being out of a vampire that had distorted its features for want of blood and battle. It chills Harry, unsettles him with its unnaturalness, and he would have known himself to be on another world even if the Veil hadn't spoken to him in its own way.

"Angel." Dark eyes regard Harry and something like a wary acceptance enters them – they have at last reached a understanding – a wizard is as good as his word, for words are power and that power has a touch of magic in it, and if a wizard or witch breaks their word enough they break themselves of their magic, Harry will keep his word and the babe is safe enough in his arms.

"I'm Harry Potter." Absently, Harry looks about them, it is night and cold and Connor does not protest but Harry is aware that it is not good for infants to be so exposed to the night air. Angel does not approach him, but is watching him carefully, Harry knows which one of them is at a disadvantage if it comes to a physical confrontation, and at the moment he doesn't want to risk it. Angel seems to sense that, to understand that, and it has brought them to a near stand still.

"Do you have somewhere safe we can go for the night?" Harry asks when Connor stirs in his arms, unsettled and restless. Angel takes a cautious step closer, when it becomes apparent that Harry isn't going to do something rash and isn't threatened by Angel, he speaks.

"Do you come from Quor'Toth?" Angel is clearly suspicious and edgy, and Harry can feel the energy he's giving off, ready to fight Harry if it comes to that. Yet it's Connor between them, and maybe if the babe wasn't there things would be different, but he is and Harry is grateful. Now that his magic has been tucked inside, folded into him like the neater corners of bedding, it wouldn't come wildly out unless he had better focus, as it is Harry feels sluggish and weak. He isn't sure he can stand much longer without sitting, let alone all night waiting for the sun to rise or for Angel to risk trusting him to come near. Harry doesn't know if he'll give over Connor just like that, but if Angel could trust Harry – Harry wouldn't find it so hard to trust Angel – and maybe that's at the heart of it. Trust needs trust, and Harry closes his eyes as he feels sick and dizzy, his magic swirling up in his belly and blood, unsettled.

"No. Somewhere else, I do not know what you would call it. Please…" Harry opens his eyes, and Angel is right there in front of him, having just moved that quickly. Harry isn't sure what he was going to say. He'd closed his eyes – blinked – and missed a vampire moving, it felt as if his magic and blood were tearing him up inside.

"Hey - are you alright?" Angel inhales, nostrils flaring at a scent, and Harry sees blood –his blood – drip onto the baby's blanket. He looks to Angel and it doesn't matter if they trust each other or not, what matters is Connor. Blood is coming out of his mouth and nose and Harry knows that this is a delayed reaction, the consequences of taking demon blood, traveling though the Veil and using his magic so recklessly. His life is out of danger now, and so all that he's done is doubling back on him.

"No. Take him. Now! ..." Harry says, quickly, and because Angel is right in front of him, Harry pushes the baby into his startled arms. He gets a look at Angel's face, and it's confused and a little suspicious- but mostly, oddly, worried, then Harry is on his knees, heaving up blood and whatever he ate last meal. He doesn't remember what it is.

"Its demon blood, you've _taken demon blood_ \- how did you get demon blood in your system? - don't you know how stupid that is? How reckless are you, kid? Damn it, I'm not letting you die until I get my answers, hear me?" It's strange that Angel, who was moments ago so wary and …and angry? Yes, angry – but about Connor and his son getting taken from him. Harry just happened to get in the way, and so he got a little of Angel's anger too, and Angel is now _lecturing_ him, like he's some kid.

Angel heaves him up off the concrete and grass when Harry pants on the ground, unmoving and limp in a prone position, trying to stop being dizzy, but over Angel's shoulder, Harry finds that all the stories about vampire strength aren't, Harry muses in exasperated annoyance, exaggerated at all. With baby Connor tucked under one arm and Harry thrown over the shoulder of the other, Angel walks away as if he hasn't got any burdens at all.

Angel marches into a building as if he owns it, and maybe he does. It, at least, answers Harry's question about Angel having a place to stay the night, and it was something of a stupid question after all, Harry thinks after refection, if Angel was aware of Connor and everything _before_ Harry came along of _course Angel_ would have been the one to take care of Connor. That implied having a place to stay the night. It only makes sense.

"Angel! Angel, talk to us, _please_ \- are you okay?" A shrill voice asks, and Harry sees a whirl of brown curly hair and brown eyes and he thinks he's going to put a silencing charm on her, but when he reaches for his magic (which he always does before speaking a spell, every wizard and witch does, but most don't realize they do it, but Harry does, Harry always has known) but the magic isn't there, he whimpers and struggles in the grip of a vampire pinning him to a table top hastily cleared, and he realizes he isn't helping himself and his magic won't work without a wand.

"Cordelia, here, take Connor, would you? Keep him quiet, this stupid wizard risked his neck to save my son, then went and poisoned himself on demon blood." Angel is saying, and the shrill voice stills and stops and Harry is just glad he doesn't hear it that he doesn't mind that Angel's gotten it wrong, that Harry did a spell to take demon blood into him to save his best friend, a mother and her baby, because – apparently – saving babies is what the Boy Who Lives does when he isn't slaying Dark Lords.

"What happened?" It's a masculine voice, deeper and more controlled, demanding answers. Harry sees deep brown eyes and browner skin, but no hair – just a bald head of brown - and he thinks he might drown with his eyes filled with brown and black and pale, pale white skin.

"Who's he? Oh my, he has lovely eyes doesn't he, Gunn? So pretty…" Harry focuses on brown hair and bold hazel eyes that are just looking at him, staring at him, and Harry can't remember why that might be dangerous for them both, for the girl especially, with his magic and mind and body trying to focus and balance, but the blood rebelling.

"Fred, don't look in his eyes directly! Wizard, remember?" Cordelia, Harry guesses, says because the voice is hers, shrill and sharp. Fred (a boy, a girl, Harry doesn't know, his head is swimming with his vision but he'd thought he'd seen a girl with long curling hair) flinches from him, getting out of his sight.

Then there is Angel, holding him down, looking him in the eye, and Harry stills because he hadn't known he'd been struggling until then, trying to get away.

"Easy, easy, you're going to be okay, okay? Now, we have to get the demon blood out of you, so listen, you're body is already trying to get rid of it, so I'm only going to help it along." Demon eyes are looking at him from behind human brown, but Harry understands what he's saying. He's a vampire, after all. _He wants to drink my blood_. Harry tries not to giggle, but doesn't think he's succeeded when he gets a strange look from the vampire and the other man.

"What? Angel, are you sure?" It's Cordelia that asks, and Harry will always remember that name because of her voice and tone, questioning everything, never daring to trust because she's been hurt and broken and loves too much.

Harry shakes his head, because she's right, it's too much of a risk, vampires don't drink wizard and witch blood, let alone demon, and Harry doesn't know what the Phoenix Tears and Basilisk Venom in his blood would do to a vampire, it's too much to risk, to ask. He can't ask it of Angel who has a son who needs looking after.

"It won't hurt me, but it's _killing_ him. I need to know who he is, Cordelia…Sahjhan is after him now, and if this finishes him… he walked out of the portal he'd opened up, and he didn't seem to know Sahjhan." Angel is speaking again, but shaking his head made Harry dizzy and he can't seem to put his thoughts into words.

"Okay, okay, but just be quick." Cordelia doesn't protest, but maybe it's the blood Harry just puked up on the floor. Harry wonders how much of it – the demon blood – is still in him. He doesn't really want to know, Angel is looking at him again, but he's wearing his vamp-face, the twisted mask of a beast out of hell. He inhales, and Harry tries to speak, to tell him no, to stop, because who knows what's in his blood will do to Angel, who has a little boy who needs looking after.

There isn't any time to say so, and that's half the problem in the world Harry knows, because there are teeth in his neck, pulling at the blood – all the blood, not just the demon blood – and Harry closes his eyes and tries not to think about the pain and all his living blood going down the throat of a dead vampire. He wonders how much else of himself is going into the vampire, a wizard above all knows that blood is what keeps magic and body alive, and blood remembers, remembers and knows and tells.

"Don't enjoy yourself too much." A warning goes unheeded, and Harry never knows who says it.

Harry thinks maybe the other reason Angel saved him (if this is saving him) is because this will as good as tell Angel who and what Harry is, and Harry can't lie to him, not ever again, because his blood won't let him. At that truth, as that knowledge and certainty passes from Harry's blood into the mouth of his savior or tormenter, a fierce pleasure jerks in his gut, blooming up and being given for his blood, but it isn't his pleasure…

"Angel, let go of him…" A hand is on Angel's arm and shoulder, pulling, tugging them apart. Angel let's go of Harry's neck, his teeth letting go even if Angel is still holding him and pressing them too close together, and Angel growls at the owner of that hand, his friend jerks away.

"Angel…?" There is no sense of that familiar comradeship between them in that question, but Harry had sensed that it was there a moment ago, a moment before his blood was dripping off Angel's mouth.

Angel turns to look at Harry, but there was nothing human in his grin.


	3. Infant's Innocence

"Angelus…" It's a hissed word, a curse. Above him, Angel shows no reaction, not even a twitch – his eyes are intent upon Harry below him. It's the look predator give prey before the death strike.

Harry doesn't know who says it, because they haven't been _properly_ introduced amongst his bleeding out demon blood, and getting bitten by a vampire (for the first time in his life) but, remarkably, he thinks he is a little more clear headed then he was. He knows that during the war he kept the habit of jolting from a restful sleep to wide awake, and maybe this is part of that.

Or maybe it's just the savage eyed vampire with bestial features that's leaning over him, while he's prone, all but helpless without wand and blood soaked clothes. It's like painting a target and all but screaming 'bite me' in this roomful of not-bleeding people, but when it comes to saving other people…and Harry knows, these people (and most important _, the baby_ ) are in danger, even if they think they know what's going on – they don't.

Harry takes a deep breath, and speaks, eyes not leaving Angel's face.

" _No_ , not Angelus, not Angel," yes, he's calling this primitive beast by the same name, because one of the first things he learned in fighting with Voldemort is _names have power_ , and maybe if he keeps calling this thing Angel, he hopes it'll work and flip some switch, " _do not move_ \- yeah?" He's keeping his voice steady, easy, soothing, and is a bit surprised at that (with the blood loss and all) most of all, his tone proves to Angel that he isn't afraid. Angel blinks at him, head tilting, confused.

Harry can't spare the attention to look to see if they are following along, his last guess at what was going on in the room - and where everyone else is – is hazy, like waking up. He counts on the vague impressions and the voices as instinct he can't turn off even while he's dying. It's kind of funny, but not really, that his life depends on that instinct right now.

"Right, well, what do you want us to do then?" It's Cordelia, and he'd know that name and voice even half dead, he thinks. Her voice is muted, and Harry is grateful, because Angel only shakes his head, and Harry spits his blood on the table to get that attention back on him.

"We are going to be smart and not pull him away from me, or stake him. He isn't thinking of anything that isn't bleeding, understand me?" Angel's focus is on that blood, and he laps it up like he's a kitten with milk. Angel's lips and tongue are right next to his cheek, and he tilts his head away and sees Gunn –he thinks. It's the only other man in the room, at least.

"Wizard, huh..?" Gunn asks, a pointed look at Harry, dark eyes asking ' _so what the hell is going on, and why aren't you using that magic_?' it's amazing how many people forget that nearly dying of a little demon blood poisoning isn't something you just get over by twiddling your fingers and singing a verse.

"Yeah, bad day, I'll tell you later. I need you to _trap him_." Harry doesn't know a way to do that, but he's sure they have _some idea_ they live and work with a vampire, it looks like. He isn't judging when that very fact could save his life. Angel nuzzles at his neck, his tongue lapping at his skin like something lazy and slow, like he has all night. He probably does.

"With you…?" It's not Cordelia that asks, but some other girl, and her voice squeaks softly. Angel pauses and it looks as if he's considering looking around and selecting another victim, and Harry wishes he didn't have to do what he does, he kisses Angel his mouth still tastes of his blood and _other stuff_ Harry just isn't thinking of. It's disgusting, not the kiss itself – that's nice if he doesn't think about Angel sucking and maybe biting a little too hard – the kiss, in other words?

Yeah, it was a very bad idea. He hopes Angel will forgive him when he comes out of this. Angel seemed like a nice guy, for a vampire, and Harry…well Harry doesn't have very many friends. He didn't really want anything with Angel – except, maybe, to hang around and play the role of overprotective magically-bound godfather to Connor - and hopes he can convince Angel of that fact when Angel comes out of this.

Angel goes back to licking his face, and Harry is a little relieved of this. At least he'll die ( _licked_ ) clean of blood. It's better then what he can say about some other parts. Harry is trying to think around the fact that some twisted part of him physically likes Angel, especially in this situation – it just isn't helpful.

"How do we do this?" Gunn keeps his voice softer, and Harry has the feeling that _looks_ were exchanged while he and Angel were…other wise _occupied_. He's impressed though; there is no judgment in that voice, just facts. Gunn is a good solider, a survivor – and just what Harry needs. He's silently thankful to whatever higher power is blessing him.

"Yes, with me. Wizard – remember? Magic, innate magic, it'll key itself to my will. Do you have," Harry closes his eyes and Angel licks the blood from under his eye lids, and he's trying not to think about _that_ while attempting to remember ' _things that muggles have on hand that are innate magic_ ' salt was for spirits, Harry tried to remember what he knew about demons (which wasn't much, admittedly) because vampires were at least _related_ to demons, however far apart, "garlic, do you have garlic?"

"Garlic salt, yes…." One of them is moving toward the kitchen, and remembering Molly Weasley, Harry thinks that's as good as any place to find some innate magic if they had the time to look. Harry just doesn't _know_ , if they had hawthorn wood chips (he'll be buying that first thing, he's sure – it's a wood vampires are particularly sensitive too – and so is magic) or petals off a wild rose, which, at least is a wild thing that vampires _avoid_ if not innately magic in nature. Garlic is common enough to risk _trying_ , though he has no idea of its innate ability. He remembers how keen vampire noses are, and how old, and with his mind already on the kitchen and Molly Weasley's lore whispering in his head he says.

"Never mind, lemon juice or mustard seeds…?" Harry doesn't want them to get too far away, because he needs them, and he can't deal with Angel alone. At least not without killing him, and Harry would really rather not. Harry doesn't shake his head at that thought and all it implies of him, because Angel is licking at his neck and that simply isn't a good idea, to remind Angel of where he'd already bitten.

"No, but we have holy water." Cordelia is trying to be helpful, he's sure; he just won't ask if maybe she could have thought of that _a little_ faster. He won't, because Harry himself is playing guessing games of what will and won't work with his own life on the line.

"That works, sprinkle it in a circle around us – I just need a trap, he can't cross a line of holy water," _I hope_ , is what Harry doesn't say, but if they believe it, magic is tricky enough to tie with what is said and what is believed, to just go along with it – maybe, "like a spirit can't cross salt." He finishes, just so it sounds like he knows what he's doing.

"They can't?" Cordelia asks, a question in her tone, Harry wonders how many ghosts she's seen.

"No, no they can't. Move it along, please – _now_." Cordelia and Gunn are moving around Angel, and Harry has to wonder how much they trust Angel, to have holy water on hand. Or just how many vampires they know. In his world and time, seeing a vampire is a rare thing, they are dying out, hunted down by hit wizards among others, and only vampires very old and very in control are surviving well. Harry wonders if it's very smart, making something so dangerous as a vampire smarter…but then, he doesn't know if many wizards get pinned on their back without their wand and a vampire licking and nuzzling at the blood on their face.

"It's done. Do your thing wizard-boy…" It's Gunn, and Harry can't tell long he's taken to make a circle of holy water around Harry and Angel. He thinks it's a bad sign and that the fact that he's thinking now might just be adrenaline kicking in, but adrenaline won't last forever in his system with nothing to do but wait for death. So it's time to act.

He closes his eyes, and breaths, and when he opens them Angel is looking back. It's as easy as that, really, because for all the warnings and lore about meeting a witch or wizards eyes, people still do it on this side of the world, even if this is not _his world_. That much, at least, hasn't changed.

Legilimency opens the door between Harry's mind and Angel's, a doorway that Angel had built by tying them together with the blood. Harry couldn't do this otherwise, for the minds of the living and the undead are too different. Demon blood, Harry has been thinking of it all along, but it's _his blood_ too – now. He does not even know what sort of demon his blood might stir within him.

His is dangerous blood, even – perhaps especially – to himself, and Harry is thanking every god and goddess he can name that he never knew Astoria until after Voldemort was dust in a grave dug long ago. Its effect on Angel has been plain, as if the demon blood has let the primitive vampire's _demonic_ instinct flood to the surface, overwhelming remains of a human mind and soul.

 _Temporary_ , Harry pleads with this bond between them, forged with blood and magic, _be temporary_. He doesn't know what he'll do if it's his fault, and Angel is insane, and that the only way to put an end to that danger is to kill Angel. He doesn't know if he can, even if he must.

Something stirs in Angel's mind, as if hearing that silent plea.

Harry feels as if _something_ is on the verge of happening, and he doesn't know if it's good or bad. He becomes aware, only then, of what is going on, demonic blood is forcing – stirring together – all the parts that make Angel whole, his vampire instincts – the primitive and bestial creature spawned by the accidental mingling of human blood and ancient demon in a so long ago night that it's lost to memory, is merging with his human soul.

Harry would have sworn, if asked a year ago, that that could never happen, it was impossible, but it's not _just happening_ – it's just beginning. It'll be a long process, Harry knows, and maybe he'll find some reverse, some cure in-between the time it will take. It'll be years, but what are years to a vampire that's lived centuries unchanged?

Harry doesn't know if it's been happening for a while, or if it's just starting now because of Harry. He doesn't want to be so self centered to think he's the key to these changes in a vampire he's just met, but magic…it _changes_ things, it's in the nature of magic to change, to force evolution along the way.

One day, Angel is going to wake up and know that he's a monster, some newly bred thing that is both ancient and newly born – and, worse – he'll be alone.

Connor cries out, and Harry hears him, even if it seems a startling distance between them, the lonely cry reminds Harry why he's doing what he is. _No_ , Angel will never be alone, not while Connor is alive, Harry knows now his vows to keep this baby alive weren't some random happening, its part of some plot – something or someone out there is planning his _life for him_ , but Harry is grateful as much as he is outraged – he hates being used all the same. There will be time later to hunt down and _deal_ with that someone or something…

 _Now_ …Harry can do nothing _now_ , while entangled with Angel's mind, wizards and witches have died doing less then what he is doing now, usually they are untrained, sometimes the rapport of mind to mind contact is forced upon them, or willingly joined. It has happened though, that the user of Legilimency breaks contact unexpectedly –if surprised - or tires too much to pull away and survive, and Harry is too tired to play mind games or mental peek-a-boo with something playing at being a god.

Harry pulls from Angel all the things that make him _Angel_ , his selflessness, his brooding, his pain and guilt…and his hope. Hope for a family, a son, redemption for all that Angel has done, _centuries_ of killing and maiming and _hurting people_ , and it makes a human lifetime seem insignificant, even if Harry _knows_ a human life can make all the difference.

Harry opens his eyes, and above him Angel sighs.

"Mind getting off me?" Harry asks, soft, because he can't really breathe, and while he's glad Angel can (at least that makes one of them) for Angel, it doesn't really mean the difference between life and death.

Angel grunts in agreement, rising up and taking notice, perhaps for the first time, his friends are all looking at him. Harry has the awful urge to giggle, but in the end, Connor beats him to it, giggling gleefully, as if sensing the danger has passed. Maybe he can, being the only _born_ vampire on this world. Harry has heard of stranger things. Hell, he's lived though them.

Harry eyes Connor skeptically, but when big baby blue eyes are blinking back at him questioningly, he only shakes his head. No, Connor probably _isn't_ the 'whoever' that been watching and playing chess games with people's lives.

If he is, Harry is _doomed_ to go along with it, because he isn't going up against an infant to make his life his own. Connor can have his life, Harry knows, even if he does or doesn't know or want it. Connor is, however, the exception to the rule. Whoever else it is is shit out of luck, because Harry has an idea about how to find them out, and it starts with finding Sahjhan.

"Did I _miss_ something?" Angel asks, frowning at his friends when they say nothing. He apparently doesn't remember licking Harry of every drop of blood on his skin, and then double checking with extra tongue. Harry doesn't know if he should be disappointed, or grateful, or worried that this is only a temporary amnesia, or if Angel is pretending not to know for their dignity's sake.

"So," Fred asks while looking to Angel and then finally her eyes land on Harry, "does this mean you're married now?"


	4. Wizard's Work

It's a rare thing to see a vampire blush, but Angel does, and if it proves one thing to Harry it's that Angel is a lousy liar, and he remembers _everything_. Carefully, neither Harry or Angel look at each other, Gunn coughs and Harry swears he hears the word ' _awkward_ ' muttered from his direction. Not that he'll disagree.

"Why would you think that, Fred?" Angel finally asks, his eyebrows arched, because those plainly put words just have to be addressed. Cordelia is smirking down at Connor in her arms, and if she looks up, Harry is sure she'll be laughing with only that look as urging.

"Well, there are some ritual marriages that look like what I just saw, the holy water circle, the table which is sort of like a raised altar, or an uncomfortable bed-surface. Before witnesses, and everything…plus, you know you looked like you were enjoying yourself, what with the yummy blood licking – and the kiss – _especially_ the kiss, not that I enjoyed it – or didn't - just you know, _he's a wizard_ , so magic happened. Obviously, because your back to being you and your not all …growly. Who'd know?" Fred wiggles her fingers, as if to prove her words true.

"No," Harry says knowing that he's surprised some of them with his speaking out – he doesn't know why – it's not like it's a new rule that he'll only speak willingly when his life is in danger, "it's nothing like that."

"No? Well…why not?" Fred pouts, and Harry wonders where in this world (or in another?) she comes from and if she thinks he's slighting Angel somehow. Angel is looking at him, and part of that look is grateful, and another is hurt curiosity at a rejection – very carefully hidden, because Harry doesn't know if anyone else can see it, he thinks he does mostly because of the fact he used magic and blood to get into a vampires mind. It'd be, Harry knows, a very bad idea to fall in love with a vampire – any vampire, really – but most _especially_ Angel.

Harry sits upright on the table, his feet meet the floor and he tests himself by standing, Angel is almost hovering, but not quite willing to touch. He's standing, looking at Angel just standing there, not sure of what's between them, and not sure if he's welcome for all he tried to pretend there is nothing between them for their sake, or his, or Harry, in some misguided attempt.

"I'm engaged." Harry says, point blank –it's cruel, but true, and Harry has to know, has to be sure that he's not just making it up in his head – he regrets it as Angel _flinches_ away, stung and surprised. Harry tries to pretend he doesn't see, carefully doesn't think of why it hurts to say the truth.

"Oh. _Oh damn_ , will he be pissed?" Cordelia blurts out into the sudden silence, and Harry wonders if Angel's _friends_ will always assume from now on that anyone he takes an interest in will be a guy. If so, aren't they going to be in for a surprise?

" _She'll_ understand. I usually get myself into these sorts of situations." And somehow, he usually gets out of them, this time, Harry doesn't know if he can.

"Come on, you need a shower to start with." Cordelia carefully hands Connor over to Angel with a pretty grin that makes Harry sense that there was once something between these two, but he doesn't know (and tells himself he doesn't care) if there is now. It's a lie, but it's the best he can do. Cordelia then surprises him, smiling up at him before gripping Harry by his sleeve – and it does not surprise Harry to see that Cordelia has the only clean part of cloth on his arm in her fingers – she's pulling him away while not looking to Angel, whose eyes Harry can _feel_ following him.

"Is Cordelia stealing him?" Fred sounds disbelieving, as if it's some underhanded trick to a game she doesn't quite understand. Gunn makes some sort of cough sound, as if he's holding in a laugh.

"Not really, I wouldn't worry about it Fred. She's getting her own answers." Gunn says it plainly, going up the stairs his hard, but Harry doesn't let it show much past slowing down to a crawl, Cordelia at his heels. When they reach the stair landing, Harry closes his eyes and breaths, willing himself not to tremble. Cordelia, of course, only notices this now.

"Jesus, are you alright?" He can see her opening her mouth to call for Angel, before he tumbles backwards down the stairs he just came up. He grips her hand – still on his sleeve – and shakes his head slowly no. He's not that weak, not yet. Even if he is, he'll pretend he isn't until it's too late.

"Don't, just don't." Harry pleads with her, keeping his voice soft because he knows just how keen vampire hearing is.

"Why not..? He'd help, he's a decent guy –eh, vampire – oh, hell – can't you _see_ that? He dragged you in here bleeding _demon blood_ – dangerous stuff, and icky – and we still don't know how you got a hold of it, illegally maybe? He drank the demon blood to save you, clearly not a risk free plan there, you know? Why can't you just trust him to be a good guy?" Harry looks at her, _really looks_ at her for the first time, and sees something besides the girl she pretends to be, his eyes narrow and he tilts his head. Nothing in this world is as it seems, vampire born babies, vampires with souls, and some god like being hovering at the _fringes_ of everything. It's driving him nuts, and maybe – just maybe – Cordelia is the key to it all.

"What are you, _who are you_ , to know so much about me?" Cordelia grips his hand right back, eyes wide and startled at his words. She doesn't meet his eyes; she's looking over his shoulder. So this is one who's learned the lesson well, after only once having seen Legilimency at work.

"I…I get visions, and in one of them…" Cordelia pauses, swallows and goes on. "In one of them, you _died_ down there on that table, but you didn't, with you…everything changes with you around, you're something special, like a catalyst." _You died down there_. Harry shakes off those words, the unease he feels that comes with them. That god like being is sending a message through this girl, a message he doesn't care to heed, it says ' _I see you, I can change things, hurt people, stay out of it, stay away_ ' and only someone afraid would do that. It's a message Harry has heard before, many times, many ways, and never has he heeded it. That isn't changing now.

When would-be gods and demons feel fear, it is only because they know they can die, sometimes it takes ages, and sometimes it only takes a special weapon or thing – in Norse myth the god Baldur had died by a dart of sharpened mistletoe, in Greece it was said that Pan had been killed. So whoever was playing god now was not immune to death, or else why would they feel _fear_ about a trained wizard the likes of which this world hadn't seen in ages?

"Wishful thinking, that. Where do your visions come from? Have you always had them?" If he had his wand, Harry knows, he'd waste no time to look into this girl and _trace_ whatever links her to the would-be god out there. But that sort of magic takes focus, and a wand – a focus – is exactly what he does not have.

"I – I don't know, I just do, and they come true, sometimes. My visions, they are the only warning we sometimes get when something bad might happen." _I want to help them; I don't want people to die if I can help them- they are innocent, they haven't done anything to deserve death_. Is what she does not say, but might as well have for he hears it, unspoken but there and hanging between them.

"I understand, Cordelia. You see though, that's the problem I have with Angel, he'd help, and he'd help too much without thinking it all the way to the end. He has a baby to see grown up, I don't. It isn't good for either of us, that sort of helping. I don't need saving." _Or guilt if I end up killing him_ – it seems a day for things not said to be understood, but Cordelia hears it, what Harry does not say. That it could have been Angel dead down there, in a maybe reality, and not Harry.

"Yet you both do it, don't you; the saving people thing." _You both understand my reasons, my choice_. Cordelia says nothing else as she takes him to a room that is empty of a certain feeling that lingers when a living person calls it _theirs_. It's to be, Harry knows without asking, his room.

"Yes." There is a lot unsaid between them, but much more then can be said is understood now. It settles things, that knowing.

"He won't stop, you know. He'll never stop doing what he does, yet that doesn't mean he doesn't care about you, he just cares too much about everything else." Harry wonders if anyone ever told Ginny the same things he's hearing now, or if she had to figure it out on her own while loving him. He thinks an answer to why Ron and Hermione aren't as close to him as they once were as children, is in those words as well. Maybe they only grew up, having little Rosie to raise, but Harry can't give it up, what he does is a part of who he is, he isn't making up for past sins (or maybe he is, if he believes in past lives) but in his youth he did it so often it just became something he did without question, fearless and bold and saving people without looking after his own hide.

In Cordelia's words, Harry glimpses that closeness that she has for Angel, it hasn't faded, merely changed, and Harry knows that he need not worry, for Angel she is only a close friend. He senses that she's been beside Angel since the beginning of his redemption, because some things he does not need Legilimency for.

"I know." He says, and Cordelia _sees_ , sees that part of him without need of vision or prophesy.

"Oh, god, this is _tragic_ , not funny at all. You're just the same, aren't you? It's just got to be a Greek love tragedy between you two, doesn't it?" She groans, and Harry can see the want on her face to just hit her head against the wall and just forget or blank out everything she's figured out.

Harry wishes she could too, out of sympathy – mostly – but also because he doesn't like that someone as close to the heart of the mystery of this place and its god-like entities knows him so well without words. Some of what he feels, Cordelia must read from his features, he's too tired to hide it.

"It could work, you know if you let it. Angel _really_ likes you, I can tell, and maybe you two could work it out, what with baby Connor to look forward to going home to." Cordelia is thoughtful, and she steps side to side, the look on her face still considering. Clearly she doesn't need visions to plot the future. Harry frowns, because something about what he just thought was important, but he can't put his finger on it. It only has something to do with the god-like entity. For the first time he considers the fact that their might very well be more then one.

"One last bit of advice, Harry – take a shower, then a bubble bath – yeah?" She winks, and then she's gone. At least Harry doesn't have to worry about electronics bugs being planted in his room, or the shower and bath tub he can see now that it connects to, as magic and technology simply do not mix.

He strips out of the clothes he has on, the dragon hide leather that makes up his outer battle robe from a shedding of Norberta's last year, the empty wand holster at his arm sown with acromantula silk, it's his engagement ring hanging on a black thestral hair braided with silver unicorn hair with DA coin - the old gold Galleon – even now he doesn't take it off.

The shirt is a gift from Buckbeak and Fawkes respectively, though made by Molly and Ginny, as hippogriffs feathers are resistant to physical harm and some spells, while phoenix feathers are a magic all their own, but Harry likes it because the silver and scarlet feathers sort of fit to him like a second skin. The pants are simply jeans, because he likes the fit and feel of them.

The boots though, are basilisk skin. He'd been going out fit to fight, and for once is glad of it, because it probably saved him in the long run. Just about everything is caked in demon blood – his blood. He takes them off and puts them in the shower with him, getting them soaked in hot water and getting as clean as he can at the same time, because he doesn't trust a washer and dyer to work, and if that means scrubbing them by hand and drying by sunshine, he'll do it and be grateful all the same.

The blood has to be drained from the tub three times, and he only hopes it doesn't do something strange in the sewers. By the end of it, he has everything hanging up and only the jeans look like they'll need replacing, the innate magic of the things he wares – or his own magic itself – seems to have preserved all the rest from much harm. All the things he wares are naturally inclined toward protection – only sometimes that works toward him and not the items themselves, and one would think it was too much, or that that _harm_ simply wouldn't happen, but it wasn't the reality of it, what it really was, was a bit of luck and keeping his memories alive and on his person.

Now he had to think about if magic would be able to send a message across the Veil, he tried the DA coin first, rubbing the surface smooth and clinging to his magic as he thought the words ' _H.P. Alive'_ it was warm to the touch when he had finished but it had worked. At least on this side of the Veil, and if Hermione's genius didn't cross dimensions, well, he'd tried.

Next the plucked a crimson feather from his shirt, and burned it, Fawkes would feel it, would know something had happened and would follow the feeling _here_. Or so Harry was hoping. If a _pure_ magic creature like a phoenix, its body a living symbol of life and death and rebirth, couldn't get across dimensions, he wouldn't like to guess at what could. Maybe if Fawkes came, he could then get messages from his world and send them back.

Harry could think of nothing else he could try to do, so he let his clothes hanging about drying and crawled into the bed, bare skinned and shivering, having forgotten time while he was working with the simmering magic within him. The covers around him warmed, and Harry closed his eyes feeling safe enough now to sleep, knowing he'd done all he could to let his world know he was alive and next he would try to tell them where he was.

He knew he could cross the Veil – as a last result, without knowing if he could go back or end up somewhere else – if the Veil let him leave at all; but he had no wand, no focus, and while he had all the supplies with him now for a wand core, he had only the vaguest notion to how everything would be put together.

He was no wand crafter's apprentice, the wand worked that chose the wizard, and how a wand could chose the wizard after the wizard had made it, he didn't know if it could work, and getting a wand to chose him by making it – it sounded like force – and one never forced magic and expected the results to go well.

He'd try, because when it came down to it, he might as well be on his own. There was no other wizard or witch around who'd know how a wand worked, or was made, what a wand would mean to him, and how they were weaker without a wand, relying on a inner focus with unpredictable results.

It was dangerous, and perhaps that was the point, as this whole world was the same. He thought of staying, of teaching, then sleep took him.


	5. Raining Wizards

Phoenix song hums and sighs in his ears. Blurry eyed, Harry finds himself looking to the door, for it was something about that door that had finally woke him. Angel is looking into the room, and his eyes are fixed on Fawkes. Harry doesn't know if Angel had knocked, or if it had been the protesting hinges that caught his sleeping mind's attention, yet he's awake, and Angel is watching Fawkes with an expression Harry can not put a name to.

"It's alright, you know, he's not going to hurt anyone." Harry states, just in case Angel has gotten any odd ideas in his head.

"What is he?" Angel's voice is filled with a sort of awe, and Harry can't help but smile to hear it. He sits up, and is aware that Fawkes is all awkward wing tips and stumbling feet over uneven bedcovers to find a place in his lap, soothingly he trails his hand over the soft downy neck feathers to the frail looking tail train, a flame of crimson red and brilliant gold's, Fawkes looks his best, and rightly preens.

"Phoenix, but his name is Fawkes, he's a friend; I think he thought I was dead." Harry says at a guess to why Fawkes is being so friendly with him, not shy at all with a dark creature – which he'd sense even if Harry _didn't_ know if Angel was a vampire with a soul – standing in the room. Fawkes squawks and nips at his finger playfully, as if to admonish him for saying _that word_ , dead.

Fawkes is startlingly sensitive about it, for a magical bird that symbolizes death and rebirth.

"What's wrong with your hand –and arm?" Angel asks softly, eyes still on the phoenix; for all that it appears the vampire hasn't looked away from it since entering the room, he's noticed something about Harry that Harry hadn't. He isn't sure what to think of that, Harry glances to his hand, the very same he'd used magic with the other night, and the reason Angel noticed it perhaps becomes a little clearer, he's using it to pet Fawkes, for all that it looks like he shouldn't be able to use it, noticing for the first time its black and blue, beaten over badly. It looks as if he's near broken it.

Fawkes nuzzles his cheek against the hand, and as a tear touches the skin a pain he hadn't paid attention to eases, like a tightening in his chest being loosened, it isn't _gone_ , but enough that he notices something beyond it. He strokes Fawkes's cheek in thanks, black eyes peer up at him. Those eyes prompt him to be honest with Angel, though he hasn't any real reason to trust him so. He does, though, have reasons to trust Fawkes.

"I lack a wand, a focus for magic. That has its consequences." Harry bends the fingers of his hand one at a time, to the palm and back again, and though they are stiff, feeling as if pins and needles are pushing unseen into the skin, he can use it.

"I thought, for a wizard, magic is…" Angel shrugs, unable to describe what he thought further, he leans against the door, so Harry knows he wants some sort of explanation.

"It's what we are, magic is. Only, with the proper tool, we can also use the magic we don't need, that's extra – so to speak – and use that to our advantage. It's focused, so it doesn't harm us, the use of these tools. It's when we use that magic _without_ the key of the focus that we…tire." It's the best Harry can do, this explanation. It might be different, if Angel had ever seen his world first hand.

He'd know then that children grew up with magic growing in them from the day of their birth, only when they went to Hogwarts or some other magical school were they allowed a wand, and taught magic under the watchful eyes of adults near by. Even when learning about their world, formally, few students questioned how much book work and lectures were involved in comparison to how much wand-waving and words. It was a careful balance, their bodies learning to adapt to growing, the magic helping it along or used by wand and word for another source. In a very real way, children with magic needed to go to magical schools. It was only as an adult that a wizard or witch could _feel_ when using too much magic could harm them, and then stop, or not, as Harry knew he'd done. It was _dangerous_ , playing with his magic as he was.

"Looks a little more severe then _tiring_ …"Angel's right, but Harry doesn't say anything as he glances to his clothes. Angel follows the look, and seems to get the hint that under his blankets, Harry isn't wearing anything. It's a way to get Angel away, and Angel must realize this, but he doesn't say as he turns around abruptly, the door clicking shut behind him. Angel's feelings may have been hurt, Harry knows, but he also knows that Angel doesn't really need to learn any more about him. Yet his tongue is too free with Angel lurking about.

That was a reaction Harry hadn't counted on. Mind magic, like Legilimency, went both ways. Harry thinks about that, that Angel might _like_ him now only because of Harry stumbling though the demonic instincts and digging into the root of the melding of demon and human soul to call Angel back into his right mind. Angel can't say Harry doesn't know him, and Harry can't say that something of his mind might have been left behind, or seen. Angel isn't human, no matter what he looks like.

Harry dresses as he thinks, finding his good shoulder the perch of Fawkes, only then does Harry notice the note tied to the phoenix's leg. He unties it, uncurling the parchment, and familiar handwriting makes his breath catch in his throat.

_Harry,_

_Fawkes indicates you are alive, is impatient to go to your side. Ministry informed D. P. of your 'accidental death' via Veil of Death, they were Dark Lord/ Pure Blood sympathizers inside Ministry; trial was rigged, Malfoy and Astoria were furious, have uprooted Ministry by popular opinion, new government is called Order of Phoenix, you'd be proud; Astoria's baby is a boy, named Scorpius Hyperion Malfoy._

_It's been two months, how long for you beyond Veil? Reply by D. A. coin._

_Hermione Ganger,_

_Headmistress of Hogwarts_

Harry closes his eyes, taking his D. A. coin from around his neck. He saw the message he'd left there only last night, _H. P. Alive_ , and wondered how long his friends had seen it for – how long had they hoped he'd come back on his own, before, to them, Fawkes had suddenly seen fit to be at his side. It must have been maddening, but why had they not replied by the very same D. A. coins? Did it only go one way now, his to theirs? Or had they only been afraid he'd end up with a blank coin for a reply, and give up hope?

He'd arrived last night, the question now was…how long had he slept? He felt he should have asked Angel while he'd stood in the door way, but now Harry would have to go looking for someone to ask.

"How could he have done that to Angel, though?" For a moment, Harry thought Cordelia was talking about Harry, what he'd done last night to save his own skin, and theirs, there was such disgust in her voice that Harry took a step back in surprise and hurt.

"Wesley must have had his reasons." Fred protested softly, and Connor was evidently near for he cooed, as if in agreement. Harry narrowed his eyes, listening, for he'd wondered _how_ Connor had come to be in his arms, and if he must learn by eavesdropping, well, at least it wasn't as awkward as asking.

"Fred, face it, if we had seen that prophesy, that Angel would kill his own baby…would _one of us_ have believed it?" Gunn asks this of them, as if he knows what the answer is. And, maybe, he does. In that same way, Harry is reminded of Ron, to Gunn's loyalty to Angel.

"No…Yes, he'd been acting so strangely before. I…I don't know." Fred hesitates, and her footsteps move away, and Harry wonders what she means. If how Angel was acting before his arrival isn't the usual, and Angel is certainly acting differently now – how is he, or anyone – to know which way Angel is acting is natural for him? The damage Harry might have done, along with this new knowledge of uncertainty, it makes Harry sick.

"We know why now, it's because his pigs blood had been spiked with…with Connor's blood." Cordelia sounds a bit sickened at that, and more then a bit disgusted, as if she couldn't imagine the kind of person or being who'd do something to hurt an innocent babe _and_ Angel. Harry is like-minded, but he has some ideas.

"So, what do we do, let Wesley off with 'kidnapping Connor is forgiven now, because you're in the hospital with your throat slashed open'…you know, Angel wants to visit him." Gunn finishes, but he clearly hasn't forgiven whoever this Wesley is.

"God, what a mess, why hasn't he?" Cordelia asks, though Harry can tell she doesn't really want to know the answer.

"Waiting for sleeping beauty to wake up…but it should be alright to let Angel go, I'll be going with him, you know, just in case." Gunn reassures them, but Harry doesn't know how much of those words are a comfort; he doesn't know the group all that well – though he might guess. People are surprisingly honest in the midst of a crisis.

"Don't let Angel hear you say that." Fred teases, and Harry knows now that they are talking about him, and uncomfortably wonders if he should step in before it goes any further.

"What? I'm _straight_ , not blind." Gunn teases Fred right back, and Harry has the uncomfortable feeling that they are somehow flirting.

"Yeah, but he's getting married, well – he's engaged at least - saw the ring." Cordelia either knows this too, or is ignoring it, and Harry can practically _hear_ the grin on her lips. Harry quickly steps onto the balcony, into their sight.

"Hi Harry! We were just talking about you." Fred chirps in, seeing him first. Gunn rolls his eyes upward, as if annoyed at the interruption.

"Fred, sweetie, you don't _tell_ people that." Cordelia states gently, and Harry sees that Fred is the one holding Connor. Something in Harry is glad to see the babe, as if some clenching grip has been set free, just because of the sight.

"Why not…?" Fred asks, and it's sort of sweet, her ignorance and innocence. Harry isn't fooled into thinking that that makes Fred someone to protect, no, because he also sees her intelligence – and it's enough to rival Hermione.

"It's sort of rude." Cordelia tells her, almost delicately, as if she doesn't want Fred to be hurt by her own lack of people skills.

"Not really, for me, you'd be surprised what I've overheard about myself – and read in the papers." Harry says with a smile, one that Rita had called ' _charming'_ and one that Hermione had told him was damning.

"You've been in the papers?" Gunn asks his eye brows raised in clear surprise. Harry wonders how much he should say, because Voldemort was a stain upon his world, gone now, but remembered. If the Dark Lord was remembered among them, Harry is even more so famed. The life of an Auror was one that was, at least, isolated.

"Wizard and witch ones alike." Something of his rueful regard of those articles must come though in his features of voice, for Cordelia winches in sympathy.

"That bad, huh…?" She asks, Harry says nothing for he feels Fawkes, who'd been kept out of view on his good shoulder, moving into their view. Early in the war Harry had learned not to favor his bad side. If one favored the stronger side, the enemy would be in for an unexpected surprise, naturally. The phoenix chirps now in friendly agreement, peering up from the mess of Harry's black hair.

"Uh, oh – _wow_ – I didn't know you had a…pet bird?" Cordelia saws, her eyes filled with awe, for she trusts Harry not to endanger anyone, and she has the Sight – like it or not – and can sense something of the nature of good and evil.

"Not a pet and not exactly a bird." Harry says, petting the crest at the back of Fawkes's head.

"A phoenix…" It's a stranger's voice that says it, he's green skinned and red horned, red lipped and red eyed, and his hair is a mix of brown at the bottom and blond at the top. There is no suspicion in him, just an honest contentment, as if he gains some measure of peace from Fawkes's very presence.

"Lorne! What are you doing here? Who's he?" Pleasure and surprise fill Fred's voice, and she grins with a sort of child-like glee. At her question, Harry pays more attention to the man standing at the demon's side then he does the brightly colored, but clearly benevolent demon (and wouldn't that phrase turn the magical world on its head?) – Harry is surprised, because he _recognizes_ the man.

"My friend here wanted to stop by for a visit, and I thought it best that I come along to sooth things over for…" Lorne turns his eyes to Harry, looking away from Fawkes for the first time since he's entered the room. Something in what Harry looks like must clue him in, for he looks quickly to his _friend_ , seeing then the same sort of look.

"Sirius…" Harry says, choking down a sob, because it's _true_. Harry knows then that for his world it's been two months while it may not even have been _two days_ for him, because here Sirius stands – and he hasn't aged much from Harry's memory – if anything, Sirius is the one wide eyed and startled, at how much _Harry_ has aged.


	6. Dog Star: Found

"Harry…?" Sirius whispered the name with a reverence Harry does not think he would ever live up to. Harry shakily nods his head, having reached the end of the stairway and standing on even footing with Sirius, seeing him face to face, he could not deny the truth of what he saw.

Seeing him was a blow to the heart, for Harry had long ago given up the hope that Sirius was alive and breathing somewhere – it was a possibility too painful to consider, that he, they, had been _abandoned_ – and certainly, the thought had occurred to Harry; _where else does the Veil lead?_ Yet he had not allowed himself to consider hoping to see his godfather alive and well after _twelve years_. After all that time without a word from Sirius, it seemed a certain end.

Yet it had not been twelve years, not here – not for Sirius. It changed everything.

"How long…?" Sirius was grasping for words, seeing the painful difference in Harry's age. There was not even a half dozen years difference between them, Sirius forgot the words and his question in favor of opening his arms and striding up to Harry to give him a engulfing hug.

Harry returned it with equal fever, among wizards there was no shame in this act; a man was still male for all that a hug might otherwise convey weakness outside the magical world. Harry forgot where he was, and enjoyed the embrace for what it was, a relief, a rejoice of life, seeing in the past a time rewritten where Sirius and Harry had always been together, and Remus had survived…tears threatened even as he shoved them aside to speak clearly.

"Twelve years….it's been _twelve years_ , Sirius." Harry told him, weakly and soft as a sickness of spirit tumbled about in his stomach like butterfly wings. Sirius shook in his arms, in surprise and horror.

"Oh, God, Harry…I thought…it's not, not here, only three months, barely." Harry believed those words, believed them with all his heart and soul, if two days here are equal to two months back home, a hundred and forty-four days would not seem a long time if one did not consider the lapse between worlds. Or know of it, as Sirius could not have.

"The war…?" Sirius asked, stiffening up in his arms and Harry let him go, Sirius's big hands warm on his shoulders as Sirius looked into his eyes to see the truth as Harry could not hide it there.

"We won, it's over _but_ …" How could Harry tell Sirius _like this_? He was saved from saying it, from admitting the horror of the losses to Sirius from this fresh and awful viewpoint, by a growl that came from up the stairs. It came from human lips, and Sirius saw Angel for the first time, snarling down at him from atop the staircase that Harry had descended from.

"A _vampire_ , Lorne, we came to see a vampire?" A challenge lit in those stormy grey eyes, or perhaps Harry was only seeing it now – realizing it when Sirius right in front of him. The green demon stepped forward, mouth open to speak, but it was Angel who beat him to it.

"You will not touch him. He is _mine_." Angel hissed to Sirius, and it dawned on Harry that this was happening _because of him_ , not because Angel had known of Sirius and disliked him in these (to Sirius) past months. Sirius narrowed his eyes, lips twisting with a snarl that threatened to sound, more dog-like then human, that sound would be.

"Angel, _no_ , he isn't a threat to you, understand me?" Harry protested weakly, as Sirius took several protective steps in front of him, raising a wand at Angel's face. Angel did not look at all threatened by this, though Harry knew Sirius to be a better dueler then most, for all his faults Harry had come to realize over the years that if Sirius had only taken Bellatrix Lestrange a little more seriously, he would not have gone through the Veil at all. Sirius was dangerous, but Angel did not know enough of wands and wizards to realize his peril.

"Naturally, I don't quite agree with that Harry." Sirius did not look to him, but Harry felt that Sirius was puzzled by Harry knowing a vampire by name, let alone well enough to defend him.

"He has a soul, Sirius," Lorne said at last, as if that should make a difference to a wizard, " _a human soul_."

"Very good, so do I, it doesn't make him a _good man_." Sirius tilted his head, for the first time noticing the other people in the room, and that they could be threats to Harry. It was in a wizard's nature to take a personal threat _personally_ , dueling was done _one on one_ , and rarely would witch or wizard take on more then one at a time or gang up on one another. It simply wasn't done.

"Muggles?" Sirius asked of Harry, and because it was Sirius asking, and his answer might very well protect them - Harry answered honestly.

"Yes." They looked confused, for all that they saw was a man pointing a stick at Angel up the staircase, threatening, but at the same time they had seen Harry hug this man like he was a long lost lover or brother, and Harry had, after all, saved their lives. They had seen Harry do magic, of sorts, but they didn't know that a wizard with a wand was more dangerous then one without. Sirius, also, had arrived with Lorne, who was clearly someone they trusted.

Harry couldn't protect them against Sirius, not really, because he didn't want to.

"Grand." Sirius in one word dismissed them, his attention back upon Angel at once. Angel hadn't _seemed_ to move, Harry certainly hadn't heard him - but he had, he was only three steps above Sirius. The look in his eye wasn't anything that Harry could put an easy name to, threatening, yes, but vengeful and protective all in one glance. It made Harry uneasy, seeing it there. He couldn't shake the feeling that he had put that expression there, somehow.

"Angel…?" It's Gunn who speaks, uneasily looking to Sirius and Angel, as if unsure what was going on besides the obvious. Fawkes stirs on his shoulder, peering about, but as it wasn't _Harry_ being threatened, so Fawkes wouldn't leave or act unless asked. It had been Dumbledore's last dying request of Fawkes, his friend – but not animal _familiar_ – that the great phoenix watched out for Harry. That duty had become a partnership on both their sides, and Harry did not question to whom Fawkes was loyal to for all that he preferred Hogwarts as a roost.

"So that's your name, Angel? Got the face of an angel, is my guess. Not a real name at all, more is the pity…" Harry knew what Sirius was thinking, as it was needed for a truly nasty and personal curse, to know Angel's name. Only the one he had been born to would do, for a name one went by was not nearly so personal; even if Angel saw it as his own, and answered to it.

In Fred's arms, Connor stirs and starts to cry and it is just awful to hear.

Harry knows he can't stand by and let Sirius do as he pleases, even if Sirius isn't the sort to harm infants, Sirius jerks around to face the source of the noise, as Fred is standing a bit behind them.

Sirius _hadn't known_ , and Harry feels just a bit justified as he thinks it's just as well that Connor would be the sort of baby to cry with his father being threatened, unknowing of his danger or not, Connor clearly does and is asking in his own way for Harry to make things right.

Harry shakes his head at Sirius, bemused at the wide eyed and sheepish look he receives. All it took was Connor crying for Sirius to step down, and Angel, well, he's the same as it's _his_ baby.

"You are to stop this at once, Sirius; none of us are in any danger from Angel." Sirius, of course, would not have believed those words – Harry or not speaking them – if not for Connor, an infant. No wizard, particularly one pure-blooded would endanger a child, so rare were magical children. There were, however, always exceptions, in Harry it had been his mother's blood and a prophesy working against him.

"All you had to do was _say so_." Sirius teases then, twirling his wand in a trick that makes Connor look and stop crying. Fawkes trills with relief, having cringed and hidden his head beneath a wing when the crying had started. It makes Harry think that the cry wasn't awful to hear just for him, personally, or any human – because Fawkes isn't coward by a child's wail, having faced off against a Basilisk – but that they'd just heard a child that could shove his emotions into their ears and hearts.

"Where…where did you get a phoenix?" Lorne asks, seeming uneasy but willing to let whatever happened fade into a distant memory. It's obvious from what Harry saw that Angel had been jealous and protective at once upon laying eyes on Sirius, and perhaps it wasn't the best way for the two to have met, but that Sirius _hadn't_ backed down, Angel would remember, if he weren't still jealous. As for that, well, the truth was the only cure so far as Harry was willing to chance.

"He's a friend, is all, saved my skin a time or two, and I've a tendency to repay my debts, so he sticks around as he likes because he knows I like his company." Harry finds himself answering Lorne, if only because Harry likes the green demon – likes him because he broke the awkward _maybe_ moment so easily. The moment that had felt stretched and uneasy, between Sirius's words and Angel's choice of doing nothing, _yet_ , as if things might snap one way, or another - and one way was this, and the other would have been disaster, surely.

"Is Dumbledore…?" Sirius begins to ask, then pauses, not ready or willing to finish the words and the thought behind them.

"I'll tell you everything later, Sirius…just not in front of…" Harry looks to Connor, who's looking back, and though babies aren't supposed to have many expressions Harry would swear this one says; _why aren't you holding me_?

"A baby, eh…? My pardon, Harry, I didn't…didn't mean to endanger him, what's his name then?" Sirius, awkwardly, doesn't look to Angel at all, and misses the puzzled look that crosses his face, then acceptance – reluctant, and grudging, but it's enough that they've decided that this place, with a baby, is neutral ground. Harry will just have to deal with them later, when Connor isn't a saving grace for their sakes.

Harry goes over to Fred's side as if he belongs there, and he isn't as surprised as he perhaps should be when Connor wiggles his arms at him and Fred lets Connor have his way, handing the baby over to Harry. Awkwardly, Harry handles him, but he'd gotten the hang of holding babies years ago, though he is a bit out of practice, he remembers how from his own godson Teddy, now too old to be so coddled.

He hadn't realized how much he'd missed it.

"His name is Connor…" Harry answers, smiling at the baby in his arms. A part of him is content, says _'mine to protect'_ even as Connor looks back up at him with blue eyes.

"Yours, then…?" Sirius seems eager to accept this as a new truth in his life, and it's no wonder why, because of all the bad things that have happened to him. Azkaban is hardly a fading memory for this Sirius, who's only been away for months. Angel looks to him with a puzzled little frown.

Harry knows how Angel feels about him – even if Harry himself isn't sure if it's natural, how Angel feels – if it's the demon blood Angel took, or that Harry made some vital mistake within Angel's mind, but he realizes that Angel thought…thought that Sirius had some sort of _claim_ on him.

It's a funny thing that Angel can handle the thought of Harry having a would-be wife out there (who Angel's never met, mind), but it's when another _male_ in Harry's life shows up that he decides that enough is enough, and he simply won't share. It might be the demon in Angel, that all vampire's share by ancient blood – and Harry shares now by magic, there is no removing what he's done to himself, but it can be taken away bit-by-bit. There is no doing the same for Angel.

"I might as well be…" Harry says softly, and at the puzzled look his godfather gives, he let's Sirius have a glimpse between the natural boundaries that bonds between infants and grown wizards and witches form, it's a tie of magic and vow that makes Connor _his_ , but Sirius – being a wizard, and Harry's own bonded godfather so alike and not alike the vow of word and magic that Harry had given – can see it just as easy.

Connor stirs, perhaps sensing Sirius _looking_ at this tangled knot of bonding and binding between them – a personal and sensitive thing, that - or merely knowing that he's being looked at by a stranger, flicks a look at Sirius, and true blue eyes meet cloudy grey, and Harry speaks, as if to explain to Connor, for all that he knows the others are listening too.

"He's my godfather. I thought he was _dead_ , it's been twelve years for me, but…" Harry can't finish saying it, the stark difference in time; it's cowardly to want his own life back when he's decided to stay here at least until things are resolved between the presence that peeks out between the creaks of seen and unseen and the baby in his arms.

"Barely three months here." Sirius says it, admits it with an ease that proves that this isn't so painful for him, the _not knowing_ in how the war went, and what both sides lost in the winning. Harry thinks, perhaps, that he shouldn't tell him, shouldn't even try. Sirius, though, won't let Harry get away with that. But, maybe, those three months here will make all the difference for Sirius and he'll choose to stay here when all is said and done, rather then go back to face a world that thinks him dead - and Harry will go back, knowing that Connor is safe.

Connor coos up at him, and he thinks for a moment that he _won't_ go, that he'll stay here too. It sounds like a nice little solution.

"So that means, the two days you've been here it's been….?" Cordelia starts, but doesn't finish. She can't, or won't. Harry has only to nod, and they seem to grasp the meaning, in only a year here, a lifetime could pass among people Harry thinks of as family, or as good as.

"Damn, what are you going to do?" Gunn asks, and Harry doesn't really know how to answer. He shrugs, and looks to Sirius, who frowns likely seeing something he doesn't like on Harry's face.

"What were you going to do here, Sirius?" Harry didn't mean _this_ time and place, where the Veil had put him - and Sirius knew that, Lorne had said that Sirius wanted to meet with Angel and his people, and that had been _before_ he'd known Harry was here.

"Well, this is the home base of _Angel Investigations_ , and so far as I can tell they are the only ones doing outright work _against_ what's meddling about here. Found some gents who actually work with the damn thing. It's damned annoying to wave a wand and have a horde of ghosts show up to tell you _not to do that_." Sirius whined the last part in a voice that Harry took to be mimicry of what a ghost sounded like when Sirius wasn't listening.

"What is it?" Harry asked, just to be sure that Sirius hadn't lost something along the way. For Sirius, in having been here for months, and not learning anything would be suspicious – and if there were two wizards (or, rather one with a wand and one without) getting rid of whatever was messing with these people and their lives, would shorten the work by half. Most especially if Sirius knew _what_ it was. Harry had his suspicions, but nothing to prove them with – yet.

"I don't have a name yet, but think Harry - there are _demons_ here, it's something that thinks it's a God." Sirius announced, and no sooner had his words been said then Cordelia cried out against the pain exploding behind her eyelids, Fred was to one side of her, and Gunn to the other, lowering her gently to the floor as she thrashed and cried out as if in the midst of a seizure.

"Cordelia!" Angel cried out in protest, going to her side, Harry saw Sirius's hands clench at his side, the knuckles were white. They were being _played_ with, now.

" _Cave Inimicum!_ " Sirius had aimed his wand toward the door he had entered by, the spell twisted in the air like lightning as it hit the door, it slammed shut with a sound that echoed like thunder. In the silence that followed, Cordelia spoke.

"I do...I have a name, I think."


	7. Vision Fantasy

Weak and pale, Cordelia didn't look as if she should be speaking. She looked as if she should be dead, in all honesty. Her muscles trembled and twitched beyond her control, even as she lay flat on her back on the floor - but she ignored it, there was defiance in her eyes that dared anyone to say what she should be doing while this was happening. To suggest that _she_ rest, out of the way and safe, while they faced an unknown danger, well, she would never hear of it.

"And it is?" Sirius asked in puzzlement, something of his disbelief twisting into the words.

"Illyria, a God-King by title, sounds about right, yeah?" Cordelia teased back, smiling sickly, and something about Sirius bent in believing in her. It was Angel that picked her up from the floor without so much as a grunt of breath, he was careful of her, as if she were as frail as spun glass still burning into its proper shape.

"I'll find out, was it just those words?" Angel asked matter of fact, seeming undisturbed by what had just happened. Harry knew it was just the opposite, because Angel's black eyes flicked over the room and over all of them for moments, then moving on at affirming their safety.

"Yes, mostly, there was something else, whispers and screams – it was so strange – there was some other name, or title, garbled into the voices, Blessed Devourer, or something. It…whatever it was, was huge, and horrible." Fear shook her, but she gibbered her words only a little.

"Then you'll rest here." Angel looked to Lorne, between Gunn and Fred, something in that look passed between them in understanding. Cordelia wasn't going to be left alone. Cordelia saw that look, and protested.

"Oh no you don't, Angel you're _not_ leaving me behind! Where else could you go for better information?" Angel started up the stairs, silent –Cordelia anything but.

"You're going to go see _Wesley_ , aren't you?" It was nervous and tensely spoken, but save for a tightening in Angel's jaw and his shoulders straightening, Angel did not respond. It was answer enough for Harry and Cordelia both.

"Oh, just don't do something stupid, promise me! Angel…?" Cordelia was the sort of person who had no qualms using her attractive qualities and apparent fragility to her best advantage. It didn't work quite so well when Angel was very carefully not looking at her.

Cordelia resorted to a sulky silence, but when Angel returned, it was alone.

"She's in her room." Angel reported, looking to Connor in Harry's arms, as if having to have someone's approval to his actions and not daring to seek such from his friends, well intentioned or not.

"Locked in?" To that, Angel only shook his head no. A twitch of his lip suggested he found such a suggestion amusing, or that it had been a near thing. He made no more of an attempt to organize them, but when Angel made to leave, Harry could not let him go alone, gently he handed Connor over to Fred, who looked between where Angel had gone and where Harry was.

"You take care of him." It wasn't a question; it was a statement of fact. There was a lurking threat of or-else in Fred's eyes that Harry did not doubt that she would fulfill.

"Likewise…" Harry whispered, to Fred, though he looked to Connor who looked back wide eyed and puffy eyed from his earlier wail when Sirius had threatened Angel. It was painful to let Connor out of his sight, let alone that Harry knew that leaving Connor here – was safe, _safer_ \- he told himself, but without Harry all the same; to go along with Angel who-knew-where, and leave Connor _alone_ here…but certainly, Angel would not allow his son to be taken along – and neither would Harry think to do so. _…normally_.

This was not an ordinary circumstance. Not when his own _magical_ vow had not bond-tied him tight as a god-father to the little babe, who was as good as his own, now. They didn't understand that, muggle that they were, they could not. Perhaps they saw his fondness for the child as some strange characteristic quirk, they did not yet know him well enough to ask him outright, and not when it was Angel's place to do so. Now they might suspect something, when Harry had answered Sirius's question of if the child was his – by asking Harry's own godfather to open his sight and shoved aside the barrier magic had formed naturally.

Such things were not done lightly, and of all them, Sirius understood what Angel took for granted in the not-asking, in the assuming that Harry would be standing at his side; for certainly the vampire did not yet trust his son to a wizard who'd showed up, babe in arms, from a another dimension, a wizard that _scared a demon_ enough that Sahjhan would flee. Never mind that Harry had saved the lives of the humans Angel surrounded himself with, the trouble had been stirred from the demon blood that flowed and fluxed like a living thing – as if it too was a second (or third?) heart, like the life-blood his magic was. Angel had not yet asked his questions, but he would – of that Harry did not doubt – he was only taking his time at it, vampires did not rush things, they had time to wait.

And when the questions came, what would Angel think of the answers? Sirius stood at his back, had put his hand on his shoulder, comforting.

"How long…?" He asked, and Harry knew what he meant; _how old is this bond between you two_?

"A day, two at most – it's as long as I've been here; two months back home, Hermione sent a letter with Fawkes." Take your pick, either answer Sirius would understand. A bond between wizard and babe wasn't a fickle thing, it was demanding and Harry only had to master his own mind and command his body _against_ magic – which was the stuff in his very blood, and no easy task, that.

Harry reached for the D. A. coin around his neck, smoothing the surface with a touch, words played over the surface in tiny and neat lines.

_2 Day here, 2 Months._

_Sirius alive._

_3 Months here, 12 Years._

_-H.J.P._

"Keep this with him." Harry lifted the braided necklace of shining silver and invisible black over his head, and tucked it into Fred's hand. She opened her palm to see the beautiful gold band and ruby stone of his engagement ring beside the gaudy D.A. Galleon.

"I'll come back for it." It isn't a promise, it's the truth, and something in his words reassures Fred of that fact. She nods seriously, she'll not doubt a wizard's word, but it's Connor that almost breaks his heart, as he waves an uncoordinated open hand at the dangling ring and coin.

Harry turns and flees, Sirius at his heels.

Connor is not alone, Harry tells himself, because _those people_ had certainly been taking care of Connor long before he arrived, not well – given that Harry had caught Connor between this world and a hell dimension - but to the best of their ability. Who was Harry to doubt Angel's choice in who cared for _his_ child?

Certainly a wizard had no place there, bond tied and vow bound or no.

Angel is waiting for them in the front of the hotel, Harry sees and realizes for the first time, standing lucid and aware outside its walls. Angel is sitting in the front of a sports car that must be red or black in the daylight for how dark it shines in the here and now.

"Alright..?" Angel asks him, because Sirius certainly would not. Besides, its Harry who's sitting in the front seat with a fire feathered magical bird huddling on his arm and shoulder, pressing it's self along his chest as if to be sure Harry's heart is still beating. Fawkes winks a liquid black eye up at him, and Harry tries to breathe through his nose because if he does through his mouth it'll sound more like a sobbing wheeze then any breath.

Harry doesn't answer for a long time, so long that Sirius must think he won't so answers for him, lounging in the back seat sideways, uncaring of seat belts or traffic laws while the un-dead drove.

"He's just dandy, fang-boy, now where are we driving off to at this indecent hour?" There was a warning in those stormy eyes, for Angel alone to read. It reminded Harry of old wizard maps that had fallen into muggle hands, where the map marked ' _here be dragons'_ where muggles thought uncharted land or sea alone, and never wondered why it was marked there – where no one went.

"The hospital, it's where Wesley is; he had his throat cut, last night." Sirius said nothing more, his eyebrows climbing high into his dark hair. Angel could just as easily read his facial expression in the mirror as Harry could, but Angel said nothing, and Harry did not know enough to fill in the silence.

"Alright then, Harry – don't think I _haven't_ noticed - where is your wand?" Sirius was apparently disinclined to sit and wait, and Harry closed his eyes feeling his magic well up a little to thrum in sympathy to his outwardly pained expression.

"Broken, I was sent through the Veil." Harry didn't say what the Veil was thought to be, _to Death_ , a death sentence - but now he and Sirius knew it now to be different worlds, different realities and dimensions only before theorized; wouldn't Hermione be pleased. Well, likely not, as it had been learnt at the expense of Harry.

Harry was none-the-less carefully aware of Angel listening.

" _Sent_ …?" Sirius hissed the word, eyes flashing in his rage. Harry could only nod simply, and Sirius snarled, the sound dog-like and animal. If Sirius had a way, he would cross the Veil right then and there, and that told Harry that his 'awareness' of the Veil and all that it was, was something the Veil only shared with Harry, a one-sided favor of a wizard. The demon blood at work within him again…? Harry shook his head, clearing it enough to hear Sirius speaking.

"Death Eaters, or…or Ministry…?" Sirius asked, while carefully looking out the window so as to gain some control over his temper. He'd been working on it; Harry realized and was thankful for.

"Neither, my letter from Hermione says it was strictly sympathizers, but there were circumstances that would have painted doubt to my innocence." Harry explained unable to stomach the thought of Sirius further doubting an organization that Harry worked with and for the good of.

"The demon blood…?" Angel asked, trailing off when Sirius flinched at the word, skin whitening even as he scanned his eyes over Harry almost franticly. Harry's guilty look, and Angel's matter-of-fact tone over blood, something a vampire would not be mistaken about, must have convinced him.

"It…Sirius, it was killing my Auror partner, she had some ancestry of demon blood, it was only by heritage, and it was killing her, because she wouldn't give up her only chance of having a baby. I suggested it, forced it – tricked Draco into cutting into me and its second nature on the field for a team Auror to join their magic when one is in danger, I…I opened myself up and…" Harry was struggling to explain, to get back the familiarity between himself and Sirius, who took a shuddering breath and waved a hand to silence the words pouring out of Harry's mouth.

"Draco Malfoy, huh? I guess he'd marry pure-blood, if there was a witch with demon blood in her rather then muggle, most pure-bloods aren't wholly human anymore. It's…it's alright, Harry. Saved two lives, didn't you? All it cost was demon blood." Sirius didn't say anything more, merely closing his eyes and Harry could see him measuring the scales against fate and chance, and hoping it was just as he said, worth the chance and nothing more would – could – come of it. Harry caught Angel's glance to him, though Angel hadn't interrupted, he was listening – learning.

And, apparently during the drive and all its painful conversations, Harry and Sirius hadn't noticed him stopping in the hospital parking lot. They got out quickly, too grateful to be graceful about an escape from the car that both couldn't help but think of as a mechanical and muggle trap.

"Who is this Wesley, anyway?" Sirius asked as they were led along the hall way, as it was in the paperwork that Angel was listed as Wesley's emergency contact. Angel was silent for a long moment at the door's threshold, watching as the aide or nurse walked away.

Harry didn't say when Sirius looked to him for an answer, he had his suspicions, but it was Angel who had the real answers.

"He was a friend, I trusted him. He thought I was going to kill Connor, so he kidnapped my son, and nearly sent him to the hell of Quor'Toth with a man who would have happily killed me as I slept." There was a dent in the doorknob Angel had turned to open the door.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> At this time, this is Harry and Sirius's comparative age to each other;
> 
> Sirius Black is 33.
> 
> Harry Potter is 27.


	8. Wary Watchers

With two words, Harry could kill this man. For the first time, Harry is glad he sent Fawkes away when the phoenix had set his uneasy sights on the hospital, with instructions to go back to Connor.

It was something to keep in mind as his fingertips tingled with unseen magic and he wiped his hand on his pant leg as if he could be rid so easily of something intangible. Harry gave one last look to Sirius before following Angel into the hospital room, something in the look made Sirius roll his shoulders and crack his neck as if readying himself. Then he winked and Harry didn't give himself a moment to close his eyes and consider _not_ following Angel, if Angel could do this – then Harry could too.

Wesley looked like a man near death, the pale white bandage around his throat bleached his skin pale, it shocked Harry – and unsettled him, how many of Angel's friends began to look like death touched them if they stuck around? How many people had Angel let himself get close to, and seen die, in a vampire's time?

Angel had sat himself backwards in a chair by the bedside, his chin resting on its back and his eyes on Wesley, unblinking. Wesley was watching him back, just as careful and just as intent, as if the chair was some sort of barrier, but when Harry and then Sirius entered he looked quickly to them. Dangling in Angel's hand was the call light; there would be no rescue for Wesley from the vampire by hospital staff this day.

"Cordelia had a vision." Angel begins softly, and Wesley's whole attention is back upon him.

"We think something out there has been playing us – all of us – Sahjhan was a puppet too, bringing Holtz back – wanting to send Connor to the hell-world Quor'Toth, even you. That does not, however, excuse what you did in betraying me, nor lesson your guilt in my eyes. What you can do, to redeem yourself just so much that your life is worth something to me again; is tell me what you know about Illyria, a God-King." Angel is very still, and Harry has never seen him like that, like a motionless statue. It presses just how old Angel is between Harry and Angel, like a bridge, it's odd that only his lips had moved and formed words, and he had no expression or other human movement. Even someone standing still might twitch their fingers out of sight, or move on their heels, or move their tongue between their teeth, or flick their gaze over a room, from Angel there was nothing.

"All I know is that Illyria was an Old One, check the books, but I _only_ know that because Giles and I looked into what Mayor Wilkins was, after. Olvikan was an Old One who paid homage to Illyria." Wesley's voice is faint and his words have a wheeze to them, like air escaping somewhere. His eyes flick to Harry and Sirius at the foot of his bed.

"Who are they, Angel?" Despite the danger Wesley must sense he is in, his curiosity is plain to see.

"Harry saved Connor from Quor'Toth, odd thing is he's a wizard and doesn't come from Quor'Toth, it turns out. He came out of the same portal; I always thought portals were one way." Angel mused on the words, his gaze on Harry. They seemed warmer somehow, or at least calmer then when he looked to Wesley, for all of Angel's stillness there was still something there between them. It was then that Harry noticed that the hand he'd seen with the call-light was the only one Wesley could see, the other was a bone white knuckled fist.

"Sirius is from the same world, originally, been here a few months – not even a year – and it's been twelve years for Harry. He's his godfather." Angel was only a little rueful sounding as he explained, and Sirius nodded to Angel in a forgiving way though the incident was certainly not something forgotten, but to Wesley they must have presented a united front.

"And the visions…they started _after_ Harry arrived?" Wesley spoke, it was hinting, as if to drive a wedge between whatever comradeship was forming between Angel and the wizards. Wesley only wanted Angel to think about how events had escalated upon their arrival, there could be two reasons for it – they were the source, or the source had not expected them. Harry could see that, Wesley was used to being trusted by the vampire, used to being a friend.

Angel snarled; open mouthed and human looking still as he looked Wesley face to face.

"You _betrayed_ me, you were my friend. And you, who I trusted at my back, _thought I would kill my own son_!" Angel was not trembling with rage, or crimson checked, he was a pale shadow who was sitting very still at Wesley's bedside. He was all the more menacing for that stillness, that he had not attacked this man – his once friend – for all his words alone were all that were allowed to show his fury.

"Am I _Angelus_ , Wesley?" Angel asked, mocking and soft. Harry had been inside the vampire's mind, he knew what Angelus was like better then perhaps any living person. Angelus was wild and cruel, brutal and a bully, but from Angelus came Angel, who wanted to be noble and a better monster then what he'd been expected to be, the human soul had given him that chance, defined what was right and wrong with a righteous conscious.

For all of that, Angelus would not turn on a friend who had not in some way done him wrong, even then – he would care for what he'd broken until it healed into the sort of creature he'd approve of. Or learned a lesson he was teaching in ways that hadn't been seen in centuries – but Angelus could not help what cruel _human_ time he'd been born into; still, for all of that, _Angelus_ would not have killed his son.

"No, no you are not." Wesley answered, and his voice shook a little bit, but he remained balanced, his former knowledge of Angel giving him a steady gaze. He could not know that that foundation was one sided, and crumbling beneath him.

"Well here is something you do not know, _not even_ Angelus would harm his own son." What he'd do to a betrayer remained unspoken between them. Harry sensed the tension between them building, as if Angel stood on the brink and only had to take a step to fall. Harry looked to Sirius, and wondered what his godfather thought of this, what sort of dark memories it brought swimming back to the surface after having been carefully buried or not thought of for years in a prison whose guards drained sorrow and left an emotionless husk.

"Angel, it's enough, we know all that he does now. You don't need to do this. You're the sort of guy who'd feel guilty even if this Wesley bloke deserves it. I don't doubt he does." It surprised Angel and Harry both that it was Sirius who spoke, but his look of loathing and distain was all for Wesley. Not even Harry could say what Sirius saw when he looked at Wesley, for the man to earn such a look from a stranger.

Angel blinked and stood in one smooth movement, walking away, pausing only once to look at the call-light still tucked into his hand as if he'd forgotten he'd been holding onto it, he threw it toward the bed – but did not look back as he walked out.

"I really think we should work out on getting you that wand, Harry." Sirius said as they walked out of the hospital room and followed Angel to the car. Sirius wasn't really looking around; he was watching Angel because he was the most dangerous thing around, really. Harry could understand it, though he didn't like it.

"Where did you get yours?" Harry asked, trying to keep his voice light. It seemed all he could do, after what had happened with Wesley was move forward. If he thought too long about what happened between Connor and Wesley, well, Angel wouldn't be the only one wanting blood.

"Ollivander's, after I got out of Azkaban, you'd have been in Fourth Year, I think." Sirius mused, looking Harry over from head and toe, taking in again how much had changed from what he'd thought it to be. Harry had aged, and Sirius – for that he hadn't been _here_ long – he too had changed, had seemed almost to settle.

To calm somewhat from how he'd been before, locked away in Black Manor, while the war went on around him, putting his friends in danger while he was kept tucked away and safe. It was the worst sort of thing they could have done to him, that second make-shift "for your own good" prison.

"Isn't that…sort of illegal?" Harry teased, knowing as a matter of fact, that it very much was.

"Yes, but Dumbledore smoothed things over for me with the wand-maker, I think there is a _debt_ between them." There was a certain weight in that word Sirius used, as if it meant something more then he was willing to tell aloud. Long ago Harry would have thought Sirius was keeping things he knew from him, out of some duty to protect him, but Harry understood that now, where as before he would not have – would have demanded some sort of explanation, vampire hearing or no.

As it was, in his own way, Harry had made it plain to Sirius that he wanted no secrets between Angel and himself, and Sirius respected that, was freer with his words then any Ministry man would have liked. Here, though, there was no Ministry of Magic. It was both troubling and freeing.

"If he's right, and what we're dealing with is an Old One, we'll need to contact Giles – he's a Watcher, like Wesley was." Angel stated as they got into the car with him, Harry settling easily beside him, as if he fit there, and Sirius again taking the back seat, sprawled long limbed and lazy there as if he belonged.

"What's a Watcher?" Sirius asked in the silence that greeted Angel's words.

"Watchers are members of the Watchers Council, they're men – and women too, I guess, but I've never seen proof of that – which keeps an eye out on minor demons and vampires, but what they're really good for; knowing their ancient history. If anyone has records of the Old Ones, it'd be the Watchers, they like to think they work along side the Slayers, guild them. A Slayer is a girl born once in a generation – their sort of generation, not ours – who plays two roles, help keeping people in the dark about what's out there – and killing the monsters." Angel watched the road carefully, but Harry has the sense that he spoke from personal experience. Harry wondered how many Slayers this one vampire had encountered, and if the one that made Angel so uncomfortable was still running around.

Probably was, and there likely was a history between them, too, it'd be just Harry's luck to learn.

"What's an Old One?" Harry asked then, to side-track Angel from whatever thoughts were haunting and warring within him.

"A sort of raw-elemental _pure_ demon, see this world – it was Hell, not Eden – and demons, pure-breeds and more terrifying thing then anything the modern world could dream up, ruled back then – but for some reason they fled, or were killed and entombed by the Slayers, it's all before my day, I assure you. We call them the Old Ones, and some would say they'll rise again to rule, if that is what _this_ is all about, we've got to stop it, and quickly, _before_ any of them gain a foothold." Angel was driving more carefully going back to the hotel then he had been going to the hospital, and Harry thought it was only because Angel had to gain some kind of control on _something_ , so in this he could be sure and steady.

"Heh. How do you propose _we_ do that, then?" Sirius asked, low lidded and sarcastic. Angel frowned at him from the rear-view mirror, and Sirius continued on.

"Harry doesn't have a wand, so you've got one." Sirius pointed at himself. "Count it, _one_ wizard."

"What difference does a wand make to a wizard?" Angel asked genuinely confused and curious sounding. Angel had seen Harry perform magic, but Sirius barked in unkind laughter.

"A real _wand_ chooses the wizard, is the wand-makers sang. It's the balance in us, between too little and too much magic, you'd think too much magic wouldn't be a problem, but it can be – too much can kill you just as nastily as too little. Magic, it's in our blood and bodies, it's what we are, when you use it, you might as well be willing the use of something like your arm and fingers. A wizard not using his wand is a danger to himself and those around him, without the wand as a control to tap into that balance of magic. Understand?" Sirius asked, sounding as if he didn't expect Angel to, but Angel looked to Harry and said nothing, the look he gave said it all. Slowly he nodded, and Sirius saw it in the mirror, and said nothing, he too was looking at Harry, with a certain fear dancing in his eyes.

"Tell me you haven't, Harry." Sirius shouldn't look so very afraid in such a short amount of time being back in Harry's life. Harry sighed though his nose, looking around the seat to meet Sirius's eyes.

"How do you think I _bonded_ with Connor –like that - without a wand, Sirius?" Sirius sat back in his seat, sulking and thinking.

"Wait, what? You bonded with Connor, how?" Angel asked, surprised and defensive, and Harry realized this was a very bad way for him to learn what Harry hadn't told him.

"What I said, as I walked out of the portal; ' _No harm will come to this child. I protect him._ ' Do you think _magic_ had no hand in it? In me vowing my protection to a babe I'd met upon stepping outside the Veil? Magic bound me to Connor, just as I spoke that vow. He _needed_ me." Harry tried to speak slowly, not defensively, because he had no regrets about what he'd done, and wanted Angel to understand that too.

" _That_ is why a wizard need's a wand, Angel. Magic is wild, otherwise, and addicting." Sirius sounded sour and disappointed, and Harry's heart broke a little hearing it. He _knew_ it wasn't that Sirius didn't trust him, it was that wand-less magic made Harry something like magic's catalyst, in a world where magic played a very small part in it's shaping. This world was shaped out of the brutality of things like demons and vampires, physical strength mattered here, where magic was played with as a means to an end.

It –magic - was more then that, though, and Harry and Sirius both knew that as _wizards_ , but what Sirius feared was that magic would kill Harry, or worse, in the end, when it was done 'playing' it's part in the shaping of this world. It had very nearly done so once before.

Angel parked at the curb, and no sooner were they getting out, then Gunn met them at the door. It was obvious this wasn't how things usually went, as Angel gave him an odd look.

"That bird you left behind, Harry? It, uh, burnt up. We tried to put it out, to save it, but there's nothing left…" Gunn didn't look him in the eye, expecting likely that Harry would blame him, and that Harry was very attached to said 'bird'. Harry caught a glimpse of Angel's expression, puzzlement becoming horror. What neither Angel or Gunn were expecting, so serious and dire looking they were at the news, was for Sirius to start laughing, barking laughter that wheezed out and left him with his hands on his knees, leaning over trying to breathe.

"He'll be back then, don't worry Gunn. It's not his Burning Day, so he'll not turn up as a chick; he's only traveling between this world and mine." Harry took it lightly, patting Gunn on the shoulder good naturedly.


	9. Behind Veils

Harry follows Angel up the stairs, because between the two of them Harry trusts Angel to know where he's going. It isn't just that Angel knows where he's _going_ , it's more; Angel knows what he is undead and vampire both, has had the time to learn it and grow into it, and it shows in every step and movement. Harry can understand that, respect it. It doesn't mean he'll follow Angel blindly, anywhere, but it's a realization, that unconscious trust between them that Harry hadn't noticed was there –building - until now.

Harry knows, also, that Angel is _changing_ , even if Angel doesn't know it, yet, he will. Harry can't help but mourn for that frail trust between them; it's going to break before he ever really _knows_ more then what it's like – real and realized, the fringes of this trust between them.

"You know what a phoenix is, don't you? What it does?" Harry asks, even as he knows the answer and watches for what the vampire will say all the same. Angel's eyes flick to where Sirius is talking to Gunn now, and the two seem to be getting alone now, some ice broken between them. Sirius will never think of Gunn as his _equal_ , he's too much of a pure-blooded wizard for that, but Sirius's sense of humor is the quickest way to being _friends_ with him, and it's a start, because Harry doesn't think that Sirius has ever had any muggle friends.

"Yes, but I've never _seen_ one, it makes all the difference, really. Between knowing and seeing, you never know what old stories are true, what rises from the ashes and what does not." Vampires don't, Harry knows that old fact of lore.

Fred meets them at the top of the stairs, and it's clear enough that she wants to go down. She smiles absently, but still prettily, at Angel and not until her eye catches Harry does she pause as if drawn out of whatever is keeping her preoccupied, merely by the sight of him. It makes Harry uneasy, that he seems to have such an effect on Fred. Is it only Fred's way? Or is it his magic working unseen (and worse, with him unknowing)?

"Connor is keeping Cordelia company, he's fine." She looks a little hesitant at telling him so, her finger absently catching and twirling a long stand of hair. Harry nods with a glance to Angel, wondering why she's telling him this when Connor's _father_ is standing beside him. Harry doesn't now pretend that he followed Angel up here because he forgot where his rooms are, no, it's to see Connor, and if he isn't with Fred, but with Cordelia, that doesn't change who Harry is following.

"The ring and the necklace are fine too, but the coin started glowing and writing was appearing on its own, so Cordelia's calling someone in Sunnydale, she said." Fred finishes in a rush and before Harry can say anything she's trotting down the stairs as if she's just giving someone already ill news that they are dying.

"Is that new?" Angel asks, eyeing Harry carefully when he doesn't look surprised.

"No, it's what my D.A. coin is _supposed_ to do; only usually I send the message." Angel doesn't say anything, and something about the way he didn't warns Harry not to say anything else. Harry's thoughts are caught up on what the message is, so he doesn't pay much attention when Angel strides through a door and instead of a hall it's a room with Cordelia tucked under the covers.

Connor sleeping beside her, head tucked under her chin, with the silver and black braided necklace with a ring about its chain clutched in his hand fitfully – the hand he is sucking on the thumb of, it's as if he feared it being taken away. Harry wonders when it was that Connor got a hold on it, and guesses it wasn't likely too long after he'd handed it over to Fred to keep it with Connor.

If something happened to Harry – the wizards and witches would know it, and knowing where he was, now – Harry wanted them to find Connor and _protect_ him, he didn't much care if they thought him Harry's son or not.

"What's it say?" Harry asks Cordelia, not realizing until she tosses him a sour look and holds up a finger that she's listening to someone on a little phone against her ear. He glances to Angel, who's all eyes for Connor, something about him his calmer, seeing his son, then it had been before.

"Oh," Cordelia says with a sly smile at Harry, "that's just our wizard; he sounds as cute as he looks." She sounds too proud of that fact to be faking. Harry feels Angel look at him, either amused or judging his mood, Harry doesn't know – because he's being very careful about not looking back.

"That's right; it's a _glowing_ gold coin, Giles - anything yet in the lore books?" Cordelia questions and answers in turn, sounding almost bored. Harry is anything _but_.

"It's a D.A. coin, a Galleon. I need to know what it says, Cordelia." Harry insists, feeling worry become a cold dread in his belly. Fred was right about the coin glowing, the reason Harry hadn't noticed right away was that Cordelia was holding it in her palm.

"Here. The words have been the same for a bit, but as soon as I saw Sahjhan's name, I called Sunnydale. We're on speaker." With a flick of her wrist Cordelia tosses the D.A. coin toward him, Harry uses a bit of his magic to make it fall into his hand in a way that makes Cordelia look envious.

_Danger!_

_Time - Demon._

_Sahjhan._

_HERMIONE._

Harry doesn't really know what that means, recognizing only Sahjhan's name – but he shows it to Angel, who evidently does understand, because he sneers as if the words personally offend him.

"Sahjhan is the demon that tried to take Connor to Quor'Toth, evidently he found your world Harry…I, I'm sorry. He can go back and forth in time, but here he doesn't have much influence because he's insubstantial." Angel doesn't dare touch him, not yet, and Harry's grateful because he doesn't know what he'd do if Angel did. Things that exist – that can be seen but not felt – they have _more_ influence in Harry's world then, sometimes, things that are _real_.

It doesn't explain why the coin is glowing. The message changes, blurs, and Harry con not care, either – why it's glowing, because the cold in his stomach becomes stone, heavy and sure.

_2 Day here, 2 Months._

_Sirius alive._

_3 Months here, 12 Years._

_-H.J.P._

It smoothes his own message, written on the coin only a few hours ago.

_H.P. Alive_

A message written by his own hand, again, and then;

 _H. J. P. gone though Veil_.

_Scorpius Hyperion Malfoy born._

The two messages appear so close together they appear the same, he closes his eyes tightly, painfully aware of what's happening. The D.A. coin is somehow reading backward. He wonders if it's with Sahjhan,or if he's only seeing the messages he missed because he didn't have someone from Angel's world in his until now. When he opens his eyes, he wonders how many messages he's missed, or none at all – because the D.A. coins fell out of use for a long while after Harry had fulfilled prophesy.

_Congrats!_

_Rose Weasley born!_

The words blurred and slipped as he read them, fading as if they'd never been there.

_Congrats!_

_James 'Jim' Sirius Potter_

_Albus 'Al' Severus Potter_

_Twins!_

Harry shook his head, eyes unbelieving, Ginny wasn't pregnant – and not with twins, but he couldn't un-read what his eyes had seen.

"What does it say?" Angel asks, seeing how his expression has become remote and masked, he doesn't wait for the answer or permission, either, leaning over his shoulder to read it.

"He's _changing_ things." Harry whispers, and it feels like a violation against everything he's ever done. Angel hisses in agreement, hand touching Harry's shoulder easily, it feels like the only real thing in the world, grounding him, keeping him from flying away.

The coin still glowed; he clung to the coin hoping, and because this was his _one clue_ to what was happening back home and his eyes were wide open.

_Voldemort gone._

_H. J. P._

That message had read 'dead', not gone – not _missing_ , what was Sahjhan doing?

It was then that the golden coin stopped glowing, what was worse was that Harry could see now that the surface seemed melted, ruined. His fingers touched it all the same, running over the surface, but there was no faint pull from the magic within him recognizing a magical object.

The D.A. coin was dead.

"Harry what is it?" Cordelia asked softly, and it felt like the only friendly voice in the dark.

 _"You know not what you have done, wizard. Worlds will burn and blood will be spilt for that child's life blood. You have only delayed, putting yourself in the way. I am Sahjhan, and I will find out who you are…."_ Those words, spoken to him on the first night on this world, so far from his own home, came back to haunt him, ringing true and painful in the here and now. It was a warning he hadn't heeded, had not even _bothered_ to relate though the D.A. coin, too late now for the regret that swum in his guts, choking him while he drowned in guilt and regrets.

"I can't go home." Harry says softly, touching the coin as if his touch will bring a spark of magic back, or better – undo what has been done. It does not, but it's real and solid like Angel beside him.

"Of course you can!" Cordelia argues, panicked by his dead tone and its surety. Harry glances upward at her, wondering why she's fighting for a world – his world – and she's never seen it, can't begin to guess what's been changed and unraveled. _He can._ But, he doesn't _know_. He hasn't seen it, and a part of him? A part of him is terribly afraid that he doesn't want to see it or know it, the world that was his that's become…someone else's making.

"No, I _can not_ , because Sahjhan has taken my home from me, changed it – twisted it into…into something else. Even if I go back, it won't be what I remember." Harry can hear the fury in his own words, the pain and heart break for what's been lost to him and can never be given back – because only Sahjhan knows what he's done and changed, now, and he'll never tell, never regret it. This is vengeance, a demons vengeance for standing between it and …and Connor. Harry can't regret that, never mind the cost is all he knows, _his world_.

It wasn't perfect, but it was _his_. Now, now it can never be again – even if he goes back to it, it will never be _home_ , never be the same. He can't go back, can't look back, because something is looming and if he does dwell on his losses he doesn't know if he'll remain sane. That doesn't mean nothing will be done in retribution for this…this _disfigurement_ of his world, his history, it has no name. It's terrible, but it sets in stone certain facts.

"What are you going to do now, Harry?" Cordelia questions, intent and challenging, unwilling to back down and let Harry fall into silence. It would be so easy to slip into the dark, to do nothing but dwell on it; Harry is grateful to Cordelia, as painful as it is for him to keep moving, keep talking, and keep living. He has to – there is no other choice – any other choice, and Sahjhan succeeds, worse, he wins. Harry will never, now, let that happen.

 _Never_ ….

Harry sees the phone still on her ear; connecting her to people he's never laid eyes on, yet who have _power_ ; because if Cordelia asks them for help they have knowledge, and in knowledge is power. It's like an unseen web, a web of power that Harry too, can use. To get…to get, if not _revenge_ – and if not _his world_ back – it'll be a balance between them, Sahjhan and Harry, of shared pain. If Harry can think past the crushing _change_ of…of everything he knows simply being played and flipped like a switch – then, then it's a _start_.

Harry closes his eyes, focusing on everything that's connected to _this_ ; his feelings, his memories that might mean _nothing_ in the world that is supposed to be his, and when he opens them he _burns_ the dead gold coin – after all, it's easy, it's empty of magic, of life - to dust, its glittering ashes crumbles on his fingers.

Harry wonders if it was _that easy_ for Sahjhan to turn his world, his memories, into dust – ashes.


	10. Wizard Wands

"Cordelia, you said we're on speaker?" Angel asks, and if he's not touching Harry he is hovering in a way that can only be called protective. Harry can appreciate that space, but wonders all the same what he's done to earn the vampires high estimation, vampire's do not lightly protect those who don't mean _something_ to them. Perhaps, with a soul, Angel is different. Harry tries not to think _he_ is the cause, either what he feels for Angel now, which he clings to even as he knows it's a frail tie between them, Harry can't think that he did something – left something of himself – in the blood or by magic. He might go mad, between losing – _everything_ – gone now, instead of merely himself misplaced; and thinking he's done something to Angel he can't fix.

Because now, there are no others out there – none, save Sirius - and Sirius? Sirius had been in Azkaban for _thirteen years_ before this, and there was no real help there, Sirius might _try_ –Harry could count on it that he would, if asked, he knew - but he was out of practice mentally, physically, and magically.

"Yes boss." Cordelia answers Angel, her eyes still on Harry. He can't help but wonder what she sees.

"Okay then, listen up, this morning Cordelia had a vision and heard a name; Illyria, what we know now - thanks to Wesley - is that is a _demons name_ , an Old One. Like Olvikan, only apparently Illyria was a God-King among the Old Ones, one to whom Olvikan paid homage to. We don't know much more then that, but things are moving quickly." Angel warns, and there are things he _doesn't_ say, that his son Connor was involved (because when he'd told Harry the connection between Connor and Sahjhan it'd been in a whisper the phone could not have picked up), that Wesley betrayed him, and what – exactly – Sahjhan's part to play in this is - now, though surely they've heard enough over the phone to guess. The things that Angel _doesn't say_ is enough of a warning to clue Harry into the fact that, whoever the people on the other end of the phone are, they have a history with Angel and it might not be that they trust each other.

"I think…I think you guys need to get to Los Angeles." Cordelia says softly to the phone, watching Harry carefully – like one might a wild animal, and then she looks to the phone, puzzled.

"The line is dead." Cordelia explains softly, and Harry can't help but wonder if it's fried from the little bit of magic Harry used to turn a coin to dust in the same room. A backlash, Harry realizes - he'd forgotten that magic 'burned' off without a wand, having a source in emotion, could be _felt_ by – Connor's eyes are wide open and he's looking up at Harry as if he hasn't ever seen the wizard before in his life.

"What happened?" Sirius demands from the doorway, panting and out of breath – it's clear enough he ran up the stairs, and probably ran though the hall, frantic to open every door and find Harry. Now that he's here, Harry feels as if something's fit back into place, and he relaxes a little bit, can feel past the drain of sorrow and rage – maybe he isn't ever going _home_ , to a world which matches his memories – but he isn't truly _alone_ , either. Even if the home that Sirius remembers isn't going to be the same world Harry had lived and worked in for ten years after the Dark Lord fell.

"It's gone, Sirius." Harry answers soft, dead inside and scared, and so miserably sad it chokes him in a sob. Angel makes a sound beside him, but Harry can't think of anything else but that he isn't alone, Sirius is here – safe – with his memories intact, but does that matter?

"Harry…what – what's gone?" Puzzled but concerned, Sirius comes nearer, wide eyed and looking between the vampire and the girl and the babe on the bed for answers that only Harry and a demon could truly answer.

"Our world, Sirius, he took _our world_ – it's not – it's gone. He's gone back and changed _everything_." Harry's hand is shaking, and he doesn't really notice it until Sirius looks at the gold-dust on his fingers.

"Voldemort….?" Sirius whispers it, because he'd _guessed_ that the Dark Lord was gone with Harry grown up, and Harry hadn't told him otherwise. Harry hadn't told Sirius much of anything about home, he realizes. Harry shakes his head, because it's impossible to say, now.

"More, _everything_ – I don't know how much, I only had the D.A. coin." Harry realizes that destroying the coin had been a bad idea, but he hadn't been able to help it, hadn't wanted to see _what else_ was changing that he couldn't put a stop to, that he was helpless to prevent. The fake Galleon, he reminds himself firmly, could only give him hints to only so far back – before fifth year, Hermione hadn't put the Protean Charm on his D.A. coin.

Sirius makes a motion to Cordelia that Harry's puzzled by, until she scoops up Connor laying at her side and hands him over to Sirius, and Harry finds himself with his arms full of baby. Sirius looks all too pleased with himself when Connor giggles up at Harry, having forgotten whatever had startled awake him beforehand.

Harry closes his eyes, enjoying the feeling of having Connor in his arms; there is a peace in him that can't be touched when Connor is near. He can still feel the pain, the loss, but it's easier to breath, to live with.

"How…?" Harry breaths the question, and Sirius tries not to grin too much as he answers.

"He may not be of your flesh and blood, Harry, but to your magic he is as good as." Sirius looks to Angel, and Harry knows what he's looking for, judging and measuring whatever expression Angel might show. It's why Harry doesn't look. Can't look, in case this isn't what Angel wants, in case there is a hint that Angel will take Connor from him, or separate them. Harry would see it, and he wouldn't protest (because _Angel_ is Connor's father, regardless) if Angel took Connor away. It'd break _something_ in Harry, his heart, he wants to say – but its soul and magic and mind, everything more so then just something, or one thing.

It'd hurt worse then losing the home his memories have of his world, because Connor is…is the future, his future. He has something to live for, in Connor, so his magic keeps him going, living – despite the shattered path he's left behind him. He can't help but realize that his world, his home, it's gone _because_ of Harry; standing in the way of Sahjhan, for Connor, but Harry can't regret that choice even now.

He'd do it all over again just the same to have what he has now, Connor in his arms.

"It helps? Connor helps him, because his magic thinks Connor is his…son?" Angel asks of Sirius softly, for clarification. There is something _cautious_ in the way Angel asks, as if he's afraid of breaking something with his words.

"Magic is funny like this, _especially_ for wizards and witches. It's not a father-son bond, exactly. Harry will always protect Connor; he won't be able to help himself. Connor comes first." Sirius is trying to explain it, how Harry has tangled their lives together. Harry feels a bit like a coward, that he doesn't say anything, leaving something like this to Sirius to explain, he's a grown adult – older then Sirius, here, not a youth that needs his godfather's protecting. Yet something in Harry still feels sick despite the surface peace Connor gives him, so what can it hurt to let Sirius do the talking?

Connor waves a fist triumphantly, Harry's necklace in his hand, when Sirius gestures for it in an absent minded way, sheepishly Connor hands it over to him. Sirius looks down at what's in his hand, and there is sorrow there when he realizes what he sees.

"You're talking as if Harry doesn't have a choice in this bond, as if it's forced between them – did Sahjhan do this to him – to them?" Angel's voice is low, a growl. He's still though, Harry realizes, too still, like something not-living.

"No. Magic is a part of us, so _Harry's magic_ choosing Connor is just the same as _Harry_ choosing Connor." Sirius wraps an arm around Harry's shoulder, for comfort, his hand hiding the necklace and the ring that hangs on it. What Sirius _does not say_ is that there are ways to channel that inner magic, and the most basic one is a wand, which Harry didn't have upon arriving. Harry doesn't have to ask to know that Sirius thinks the reason Harry's magic bonded him to Connor, and Harry just let it happen, is because he didn't have a wand to focus his own magic, to choose to keep a distance from a baby, so magic used Harry like a catalyst, manipulating events as was in its nature.

Harry knows too that he wouldn't have chosen to _not_ protect Connor – that isn't in his nature – and wand or not would not have changed that.

Yet it might have saved Harry from his doubts to what he'd done inside Angel's head.

Angel didn't look very convinced with what Sirius had told him, but when Sirius urges Harry out and away, Angel does not protest – or follow. Harry feels the absence of his presence keenly, and it's startling that he'd gotten used to it so easily and all too quickly for his tastes.

As if sensing this, Connor wiggles a little in his arms getting a better look around the wizard's rooms.

Sirius is quiet, looking at the ring on the necklace, he glances at Harry then and presses his lips together like he's about to ask something unpleasant. Or, if he isn't sure how Harry is going to react to this question, Harry is fair sure of what Sirius is going to ask and he takes a slight hitching breath to brace for it.

"You were engaged?" Harry nods, lips twisting on the name.

"Ginny, but, we –ah – never married. She's pureblood and sure, her mom had kids alright, but I didn't – _couldn't_ – risk…" Harry trails off, taking another breath. Sirius flinches as he trails off, finishing the words for himself ' _her life', 'losing her'_ ; they fit well into the void of what he'll never say out loud, that ultimately it was futile, he lost her either way by crossing the Veil of Death and coming face to face with Sahjhan, and not _warning_ them fast enough.

What could they really have done with that warning, if it was believed? He didn't know, and couldn't dwell on it.

"You – we – can't go on like this." Sirius says, and the ruby on the gold ring catches the light and dances tauntingly, teasing him with what he'll never have, because it's forever now out of reach.

"What do you suggest we do?" Harry isn't fooled when Sirius smiles, because Connor stirs yawning on his hip. Sirius has had this planned, no matter that it should have just occurred to him.

"We're wizards, Harry, we'll put the memories away, and when they aren't so painful, and all this isn't so urgent, we can always remember." There are some things that Harry isn't sure he wants to remember, or would what Sirius to know – Remus and Tonks dead, and raising Teddy – but there are other things Harry never wants to forget or misplace even within a Pensieve. The memories, he knows, would still _be there_ but less, they would have a certain lack of substance, of reality. It'd be like remembering a vivid dream, it fades and slips away when you reach for it.

"We don't have a Pensieve. I don't have a wand." It seems final, that way. It won't happen because it can not – they, after all – do not have the tools.

"Ah, but we do, it's just _tradition_ that a Pensieve that is passed though a family be shaped like a bowl. See, it doesn't _really matter_ what the memories are in, it can be a bowl – or something as small as an engagement ring, but it has to mean something to you, and that's why there is the pureblood tradition of inheriting the family Pensieve, so it becomes something important to you. Something your memories attach to, I'm guessing you've had this around your neck for a long time, and its Gryffindor colors." His grin is a little wicked, and Harry wonders just how long Sirius has wanted to tell him this. Maybe it's also a Black family tradition, this sharing of Pensieve knowledge and memories.

"You're serious." Harry realizes his slip, Sirius and serious sounding similar, but he'd want nothing less then an answer – and Sirius seems to sense that, to respect it.

"I am," Harry nearly groans at the glint of amusement in storm grey eyes, "and tell me Harry, what could be more appropriate for you to remember _her_ – them – by?"

Harry doesn't have an answer for that, Connor giggles as if he's understood the similar sounding word and name, and Harry bounces him on his hip, a feeling a little bit betrayed.

"I thought you were supposed to be on my side?" Harry asks of Connor, absently, but Sirius is grinning as if pleased and all too proud of a baby he hasn't been much around.

"Kid's got a sense of humor, Harry. Hard to believe with his dad, but there you go – maybe he gets it from you, Marauder blood and all that." Harry doesn't bother to correct Sirius about there being blood between the baby and him, because as Sirius had tried to explain, for a wizard between blood and magic, magic was the stronger life source for them. Blood, for the old pureblood families, as good as _meant_ magic.

"Then I need a wand." Harry realizes that _that_ had been the point all along, why Sirius had told him all this and given him a why – to lessen the memories, so it wouldn't hurt him so very much, so he wouldn't feel so broken – shattered inside, if not out - Sirius sees when Harry realizes it, and smiles a little sadly.

"You have to _want_ it, Harry." Sirius explains, simple and not. Harry takes a breath and lets it out; he forgives Sirius his tricks in reasoning, because Sirius is right. It's too dangerous for him not to have a wand, not only for others around him – but for himself.

"How do I do this?" Harry asks, because he doesn't really _know_ anything about making wands, or how a wand chooses a wizard. Sirius takes out his wand, smirking.

" _Magic_ , of course…" Sirius teases, Harry rolls his eyes but he can't help but notice how his magic unfurls like a blooming flower, tugged open by the feel of welcoming magic nearby. It feels comfortable, warm, like sunlight on his skin. Harry closes his eyes, and thinks on that feeling. He doesn't know how long he does this, because everything feels quite in his head, calm inside and out and he hasn't even touched the Pensieve, maybe – after all – he won't need it.

"Harry…" Sirius mutters softly, and Harry blinks open his eyes, unable to help himself in responding. He notices right away what Sirius was calling his attention to, smooth and reddish-brown, there is wand-wood at his feet, pointing at him. He wonders what it was that Sirius did while Harry wasn't looking, if he did anything at all.

Sirius bends down and picks it up, as Harry can't with a baby in his arms.

"Now, it just needs a wand core." Stormy grey eyes flick about the room and Harry's person; there are enough _potential_ magical cores here that Sirius and Harry have their pick of them.

"A phoenix feather…? My shirt has some of Fawkes' feathers." Harry offers, even though the wand-wood is very clearly not holly. Sirius is shaking his head before Harry even finishes speaking.

"No. I think…" Sirius eyes the black that holds his engagement ring. Carefully, he takes the ring off the hairs, and lays it against the wand-wood. Harry watches this part carefully, and it seems to him that the wand-wood swallows up the braided hairs, the surface rippling like water and then stilling as the core seems to settle into place within the wood. Sirius looks up; meeting his eyes and the grin on his lips is like tasting triumph.

"There you are, thestral hair braided with unicorn hair, tamarisk wand-wood, a slender and smooth twelve inches." Sirius presented it with a flourish, and when Harry took it in hand, it was warm to the touch. It felt right.


	11. Pensive To Present

"Harry… _your hand_." Sirius sounded horrified, his gaze intent upon the appendage; it was with some dismay that Harry looked to his wand hand. His eyes widened at what he saw. _Bruise,_ was the word that came to mind, but no bruise could look so intricate, like feathers – or scales.

Sirius reached out to touch, fingers running along the black swirls on tanned skin. Harry was aware of how much larger Sirius's hand seemed then his own, even with Connor tucked safely in his arm. With wide eyes, Connor is staring at the marks with the same sort of intensity as Sirius. Harry bounces him on his hip to distract the boy, but Sirius is not so easily swayed.

He frowns, eyes narrowing with a thought. Harry dreads finding out what it is.

"These looks like…" Sirius begins, but Harry suddenly has the insight that he does not want Sirius to finish those words, following his gut, Harry blurts out some meaningless muggle comparison.

"Tattoos…?" In the pause that follows, it seems the _silence_ in the stillness between them stretches to be both gapping and uncomfortable. Sirius is aware that his question had made Harry uncomfortable. Harry, after all, wasn't meeting Sirius's eyes – and to a wizard, that meant something more substantial then honesty.

"Harry…" With gentle fingers and soft voice, Sirius began even as he turned Harry's wrist around and followed the pattern that wove into the skin like some plant – creeping upward along the blood veins. "What have you been doing, Harry?" There is something like disappointment in Sirius, and Harry closes his eyes, pained.

 _He has no right to question me_! A defiant protest, pointless and senseless; Sirius has every right to ask, Harry can't lie like this, not with Sirius – his godfather – and not when they are the only two true wizards in the entire world.

"What do you see, Sirius?" Harry asks, remembering moments, swallowing down inherited demonic traits while his magic was wide open to save his partner and her baby; spewing up demon blood, his body rejecting it – a vampire drinking it and the rest – the Phoenix Tears and Basilisk Venom, and the blood acting as a catalyst for the undead drinker, changing him from vampire to some other, newer and stranger, monster – his magic behaving, even though it _shouldn't_ have. For all his recklessness, Harry had only suffered a bone-bruise Fawkes had healed. It should have been worse.

Sirius now probably had the answer to why it hadn't been, in his hands, in the knowledge he'd been raised with as a Black. Harry had been playing blind and dumb, to think a vampire bite could settle this, could take back what he'd done with his own magic. It had evened out the balance in his body, Phoenix Tears and Basilisk Venom and now Demon –magic, inheritance…blood, all of it, along with his own natural born magic tightly bound together –unwillingly combined and each deadly in it's own way – all of it, in his body. It was a wonder he wasn't dead already.

"Harry, this is a demon mark – from _demon blood_ ; dark magic, the blackest sort." Sirius's voice wavered, and Harry could think of what was going through his godfather's mind – was Harry dark? What had happened to Harry and his world while Sirius had been absent? Was it his – _Sirius's_ – fault?

Sirius let his wrist go, fingers failing away like tears.

"No." Harry hissed, holding onto Sirius's hands when Sirius would have let him go in defeat.

"Sirius, I did this to myself – do you understand? No one else is to blame, certainly not you. I…it… _I did it_ , she …she was going to lose the baby, I…I can't…" Harry's hands were shaking and he was aware that his eyes were blurred and his cheeks hot. Connor crooned uselessly, tiny fists clutched in Harry's shirt. Harry fought to speak, but he couldn't – what use had his sacrifice been, in the end? – Astoria and her baby were surely…gone.

"Harry, it's alright, if you can't tell me – show me?" Harry nodded his movement jerky and sharp.

"Sirius, what is that?" _That_ was a crude silver bowl that looked to have been carved from solid silver and beaten down. It was inlayed with black ash that twisted about the sides like waves and within the rim was dull gold, and the carved patterns there could be bent by age or magic.

"Pensieve." Sirius declared, tight lipped and defensive. He cradled it almost protectively between them, and Harry didn't ask another question. Harry puts his wand to his head and thought of the moment he lost Sirius forever; it was like tearing off a scab to watch the blood begin to flow. Something that should always be inside of himself, pouring out, there was relief in it, like crying, like being able to _breath_ instead of just using the air he needed.

It got easier, because Harry was determined not to quit until he was finished, and harder, because he wanted to share his life with Sirius until this moment, but not _everything_ that had happened in his life. It became something like a trance, ease slipping between Harry and his memories, rather then any sense of peace or calm.

"Harry," Sirius's voice woke him, lulled him away from the moments that made up hundreds of memories – so little to weigh into so much, "that's enough, more then enough." If Sirius told him so, Harry reasoned, it must be true. Harry blinked, the room around him focusing, becoming details rather then a blur in the background of his own bright memories.

Connor snuggled his head closer to the center of his chest, a warm sleeping weight, around his numb skin and muscles. Harry rolled his shoulders, stretching his spine and hearing bones creak and crack into their proper place.

"How long…?" Harry asked, looking to the window even as he asked. Behind the curtains, it was bright day. He suddenly didn't want to know the answer, as if Sirius knew it, he hadn't answered – letting Harry look and find out. Harry glanced to the discomforting crude silver bowl of burnt black ash and gold rim, Sirius had put it onto the table with his engagement ring. It was full of mist and silver threads. Sirius looked longingly to it, rather then him, and Harry understood what Sirius wanted but dared not ask.

"Go ahead; I'll be back, after I find someone to put him to bed." Harry certainly didn't know where Connor slept during the day; he stood carefully from where he had settled onto the floor cross-legged. Sour muscles protested their treatment and Harry thought fondly of when he was younger. Sirius gave him a nod as he fled, and Harry could only hope Sirius was as understanding when he returned.

Harry turned the corner toward Cordelia's room, and runs into Angel like he's a brick wall. Well, Harry's shoulder (the one opposite Connor) hits Angel, the rest of him twists away as if he's going to fall. Angel's hands come up to his shoulders, catching and steadying. The grip tightens and loosens, as if Angel doesn't want to let go and doesn't know what to do with his hands, either.

"Angel," Harry greets softly, voice whispering as he's very aware of Connor on his shoulder "I was, uh, just putting him to bed." Harry tilts his head toward his room – and Connor – but Angel smiles a little, clearly amused.

"He looks awake to me." Bright baby blues peer up at Harry sheepishly.

"Scamp." Harry tells Connor, teasing. Angel inhales to laugh, and then his grip tightens on Harry's shoulders and Harry is _very_ aware that Angel isn't human.

"Angel? What's wrong?" Harry asks, eyes flicking over their surroundings as if to catch a glimpse of what Angel had smelled. Angel has his _wand hand_ in gripped between his own large hands, and Harry can't remember when that happened because all he did was look away. Very slowly, as if to mock Harry for not seeing before, Angel brings his wrist up to his nose – his mouth.

"You _smell_ like _him_." It's an accusation if Harry has ever heard one. Angel's eyes are dark as a night without stars, and when he snarls Harry thinks he catches a glimpse of fangs. Connor is suddenly very still and quiet against him, and Harry opens his mouth but only gets half a word out.

"Wh -..?" Angel is pressed against the front of him, and the wall is at Harry's back. He's half grateful for that, at least – but it's a bit pointless when ' _the enemy_ ' coming at him is in his face; Harry can't help as he grunts at the force Angel had used to put him there. Angel bends to sniff at his neck, inhaling slowly, as if to savor it – or be sure, or something else, some twisted mix of the two. He hisses, as if to rid himself of the smell on his tongue. Angel's fangs are _very_ visible, but there is intelligence lurking in the murky black eyes staring at Harry – and, better yet, a human face looking back at him.

" _He's_ touched you." Possessively, Angel presses even more firmly against Harry's side, the side that Connor _isn't_ on Harry notices. Harry is grateful for whatever sense Angel has remaining, to not endanger his own son. It makes dealing with Angel easier, that Harry doesn't have to fear for Connor. Black eyes like a shark, predator's eyes, look into his own, seeking something.

"Who… Sirius…?" Harry asks of him, baffled, because other then Connor, that is the only 'him' Harry has had near him all day. Angel very clearly, growls – just a little, but with his cheek nuzzling Harry's neck it isn't as if Harry could ignore it. His body tenses up, straining with the effort not to push Angel away, his every nerve screaming that there is a _vampire at his neck_ and Harry needs to get the hell away. If he did that, Harry knows, it would only make things worse. His wand hand is still clutched possessively in Angel's grip, like some prize.

The neck nuzzling becomes a nod of a head, as if Angel can read that thought, but Angel only pauses to switch to the other cheek – and the other side of his neck, scent marking Harry's neck as if he's a cat. As if he's _property_. Harry becomes very still as he tries to reason though his suddenly thick anger.

"He is my _godfather_ , Angel." Part of Harry can't believe he's having this- whatever this is – with Angel …in the hallway, with _Connor_ in his arms. Angel turns his face back toward Harry, his nose nuzzling Harry's own.

"Mine." Angel says simply, as if it's already a proven fact. As if he's…drugged. Harry feels a twisting fear in his gut as he brings his hand up to finally do something (though he doesn't know what – and can't keep track of when he got his hand back from Angel) when he sees the black demon mark running the length of his finger tips up his wand arm.

 _What have I done to him_? Harry wonders, pained, it's _his blood_ – his blood mixed with Demon and Phoenix Tears and Basilisk Venom, held together with his magic which is in who knows what kind of condition. All of it, he'd forgotten, is inside of Angel too. Whatever has happened with Angel, he knows now – is sure of the fact – that what's in _Harry_ did this, is _doing this_ , to Angel.

Harry slumps in defeat in against the wall where Angel holds him, facing that reflection, that final truth, and something like sanity comes back into Angel's eyes after he blinks once or twice.

"Wow, awkward much?" Cordelia's voice rings out, having opened her door to find the two men pressed against the wall hallway. She's quick to see Connor, wide eyed and silent and _still_ like no baby should be, held protectively at Harry's side.

Cautious now, she flicks a gesture for Harry to hand over to Connor – Harry doesn't hesitate to obey. Cordelia eyes them a long moment, as if there is something she can see that they can not. Harry squirms, feeling as if all his secrets are spilling out of him (they might as well be, with a Pensieve in his room) and Angel, he feels, tenses against him warningly.

"You two need to talk to each other like normal people, or its therapy." Cordelia warns, a finger pointing as if it's the final verdict. Angel nods, not arguing, and Cordelia goes back into her room – Harry can hear her mumble about ' _vampires'_ and ' _wizards_ ' and is glad he doesn't hear more.

Angel relaxes, his eyes closed as he breaths in Harry's scent. The realization is both alarming and relaxing. Alarming because Harry wonders how long Angel has been…sniffing him… without his notice. Relaxing, because if Angel is calm enough now to 'stop and smell the roses' then he isn't about to regress into 'vampy face'.

Harry is reminded of the first night they met, and can't help but chuckle.

"What?" Angel asks softly, as if nothing that Harry is doing could really bother him- but he's asking, because it's Harry.

"The night we met…" Harry trails off, because he isn't sure how sensitive Angel is to his looks, and it reminds him of the demon blood in him – and…in Angel. Angel flinches a little away, as if Harry struck him.

"Harry…I…I'm sorry, your blood in me – blood, when we feed…it ties a vampire to it's victim, makes them…it's probably making you behave how you wouldn't, ordinarily, I mean, I have no way to tell if this is how you normally would be around me, or if it's…some kind of side-effect." Angel isn't going any further away from him, isn't backing down, but then again – he isn't moving any closer. He stands part way between near and far, like stone. It helps Harry think, that distance.

He grips his wand in his hand, tightly. That he hasn't had a thought to use it against Angel tells him something, he ignores the tug as he thinks, really thinks, for the first time since he's had a wand in his hand. It should have been the first thing he'd done, finding Sirius here with a wand, or after getting his own.

Because he remembers _something else_ now, that he'd been in Angel's head, invaded memories and thoughts as invasively as a wizard was able. Fear plunged into his gut like ripping claws, and Angel smells that to – or simply senses it, and stills even more. Not breathing, not moving, barely there – in the here or now.

"You have more then my blood in you, Angel, I was in your mind, trying to find you when you…weren't yourself. It's possible that I…left something of myself behind, it would explain you're…" Harry doesn't finish, he doesn't know how to say it 'attraction', isn't the half of it. It's almost like Angel is his, his only in a way that magic could claim him. That tie, Harry knows, goes both ways – so Angel, even after never having met him, would be friendly, would want to protect him.

Angel shakes his head, frowning as if what Harry is saying doesn't make sense.

"There is nothing in my mind and memories that shouldn't be there." Angel claims, sounding so sure that Harry wants to believe him. Maybe a vampire can tell about these sorts of things, living so long and knowing themselves and their memories so well over all that time. He won't believe that though, not really - not until he's sure he hasn't caused Angel any harm.

"I saw, something, in your memories – triggered, I think, by my blood. It acts like a catalyst, you're turning into…something, one day, a long time from now – maybe – you'll wake up and you'll be alone Angel – the first of your kind, whatever that might be…I'm sorry, I…" Harry doesn't finish, because he can't find the words and Angel is shaking his head in denial, even as he let's Harry's words run out.

"It wasn't your blood, it was… my Soul." Angel says it softly, and Harry breaths in, relieved. It sounds like something Angel had been aware of happening to him for some time. It wasn't something Harry had done, then, maybe - this attraction between them – was… natural, not caused by manipulation of mind and magic and maybe not even Angel's tasting his blood. And if it had – or was – keyed to such origins? Harry didn't think he cared, really.

Harry closed his eyes, feeling within himself, he _liked_ Angel – honestly had, at first sight. And even if he hadn't known where the liking had led to attraction, Harry wasn't going to turn it away, this gift - he wanted it, hell, Harry _welcomed_ it.

"We've been fools." Angel whispers, amused as if he'd followed Harry's thoughts by looking at his face (and maybe he had, and seen the acceptance in the end) and there is awe – reverence – in how he looks at Harry, as if he can't quite bring himself to believe it. He begins to lean down, but Harry is determined to meet him as an equal, meeting half-way.

 _Lips like fire,_ Angel's thought opens the bridge between them, and when Harry would have jerked away in guild, he find he can't because he hasn't anywhere to run. He's pressed against the wall with the door between their minds wide open; a door that Angel had opened by taking his blood, a _wizard's_ blood. Harry can feel everything Angel does, and he's aware, distant and content, that Angel knows his own feelings just as surely.

It throbs through their bodies, those reckless feelings of surety and lust, Angel presses forward against Harry as of he can't help it; and Harry groans as the kiss ends. He knows, vague and sure even as he tries not to invade a mind that isn't his own – that there is more to come, for there is no hesitation on Angel's part as he explores Harry's mind and emotions, probing gently but deeply. Harry gasps, shuddering against Angel; his mind convincing his body that he's being mind-fucked and his body mirroring the treatment. Angel doesn't know what he's doing, but he's learning quickly.

Harry wants _more_ , and _deeper,_ and he doesn't give a _damn_ that he still has his clothes on. Angel sees everything that's in him, and he isn't turning away. Harry wonders if this it what if felt for Angel, to have Harry use magic and his mind to find the core of who Angel is and was and has always been and bring it to the surface of the vampire's instincts.

 _Yes_ … _fair play_ , Angel's thoughts tease, and while Harry is trying not to enter his mind, Angel's thoughts – directed at him, about him – he can't help but pick up. He's never felt so accepted, so welcomed, so…so _loved_ , in all his life, and Harry knows that between their minds they can't lie. It feels as if Angel is everywhere inside his memories, seeing and feeling everything – sharing it with Harry. There is nothing in Harry that Angel can't reach, and Harry clings to Angel, shaking and wanting more even as he feels he's about to fall into an abyss within his own mind –impossible, but there.

Angel, wordlessly, gives Harry as he asks, mentally touching and playing with…with everything that makes Harry, Harry – and when it's too much and his breath catches in mid-frantic breath, Angel catches him before he can fall into his own metal abyss, bringing him back to the here and now with gentle kisses.

Harry moans softly, blinking back tears even as he smiles shaky and honest, turning toward Angel's kisses, Angel is griped tightly in his arms. Angel leans against him, lazy and content.

Harry wishes it would never end, even as the open-door between their minds becomes smaller and window like; they are transparent to each other, but there were limits – agreed upon silently -now. It did not mean that the window could not open to become a door, only that they could not live on forever joined mentally so intimately. If they tried, one or the other would overwhelm, taking over without knowing it.

A wild shriek screamed through the building, near – in fact – just beyond a door that separated all from one bedroom. Harry could only think a name, while Angel called aloud what they both feared.

" _Cordelia!..."_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A little bit about tamarisk (tamarix, salt cedar) wood; it has a slender branches and gray-green foliage, when young the bark is a smooth reddish-brown. As the plants age, the bark becomes bluish-purple, ridged and furrowed. In Egyptian Mythology, the body of Osiris is hidden for a time in a tamarisk tree in Byblos, until it was retrieved by Isis.
> 
> Keep that in mind, yes?


	12. Time, And Time Again

" _Cordelia!..."_

A baby cooing up at him, in his arms, Connor wiggling warm and _alive_ : a miracle born of vampires centuries dead. It's what Angel _didn't_ yell.

Harry spoke a word - and the with the word, the wooden door – the one barrier between them and the baby and Cordelia, was gone. A spell from his lips had made the door disappear – not that he knew _where_ it had disappeared to; it was simply…gone.

First impressions have been said to be _everything_.

Harry caught only glimpses of what was happening between the roaring of his blood in his ears, and the panic beating beneath his chest. He was focused on one thing: _Connor_.

Cordelia struggled against the wall, pinned in place and yelling words Harry could not understand. Connor was on the bed, his face was red and he was crying as he wiggled his little body back and forth as if struggling to get away. Dust, silver and thick like ash, fell onto him as Harry watched.

Standing between Harry and Angel and the bed where Connor lay, was a familiar and hated demon.

" _Sahjhan_ – get away from my son." Angel would have taken a step forward, but it was instinct that made Harry get in his way, to protect Angel from what he didn't know. Angel snarled his face twisted and demonic; his fangs very visible as he turned to Harry, it was with shock – _not fury_ , but that hurt expression would haunt Harry, that look of betrayal.

"Ah, Angel – and the wizard, good, good – so glad you could make it. This is going to be _fun_ , a bit of a game, you might say. Angel," with a snap of fingers coated in white dust – the dust falling onto Connor below – the gesture a threat, Angel faces him, growling lowly and golden eyes promising vengeance, "this is what your little wizard is protecting you from: what is it you wizard's call it, Harry?"

"Time Turner dust…" Harry wasn't looking to Sahjhan, his eyes and focus was for Connor.

"Ah, that's right – you don't know what this is, do you? Yet you have a name for it: curious. This is the dust of ruined worlds, of _your_ world, Harry; my gift to you….the last of your world you'll ever see – a mar upon this babe, who you gave your world up for." The dust does not cling to the demons fingers, it runs off like water. When the last of it is gone, so is Sahjhan.

"Sirius..!" Harry calls for his godfather – half afraid Sahjhan had stolen him away; but knowing he can't do this alone, he's only one wizard. There isn't any need to call for Sirius, he realizes too late, for Sirius is beside him as he crosses the room swiftly to Connor, a infant, a baby, a moment ago (what a difference a moment – a minute, makes) who is aging before his eyes; a toddler now – screaming in confusion.

"Harry – no!" Sirius warns, frantic, but it's too late and Harry can't help himself; he takes the child in his arms, his shaking in dread easing as Connor whimpers and whines, soothed, but still so afraid.

"Too late..." Harry says, mocking and triumphant, rocking Connor and humming, trying to calm him. It's easier not to think about what he's done to himself, he bows his head, hiding his face in shadow with Sirius standing in front of him like a guard. It's needed and necessary, Harry thinks, and it's only right that Connor not go through this alone.

Harry closes his eyes, years passing behind his eyelids. He hears, but he won't respond until this is done. He isn't alone, as the dust steals years from Connor and him – moments pass in flux, here and there, and back again.

"What's he done?" Angel demands, kneeling beside Cordelia who stares wide-eyed at Connor and Harry, as if having a vision – and maybe she is. Maybe she sees in those moments the years Harry and Connor live. Angel keeps his distance, as if not trusting his eyes. He knows his limits, and magic isn't something vampires can do with ease. He trusts Harry and Sirius, even though he shouldn't.

"That dust – we use it in Time Turners; those, of course, do one of two things, take you forward, or back into the past. _Normally_ , but this – Angel, you have to understand – this is never done, when it's put onto an individual's physical body - the effects are quite…erratic." As if to prove Sirius's words right, Connor twists and wriggling in Harry's arms, a child of five. Harry's eyes are closed, his head bowed, and Angel can see the tears on his cheeks.

"How do we stop it?" Angel snaps – suddenly newly afraid, standing and moving toward Harry and Connor, still held by Harry, but a boy of ten – he would have reached them, if not for Sirius in his way.

"We don't." Sirius meets the vampire's eyes, a warning in them. It stills Angel for a moment, when he looks to Harry again – he sees silver hair twining with black. If his heart beat, it would have stilled in his sudden fear of the truth, this unknown.

"We don't touch them. We can't." Cordelia says the pain like a physical touch of chilled finger tips running along his spine, Angel can smell her tears.

"What's _happening_ to them – my son –Harry?" Angel demands, Sirius still standing in his way – his fingers are on his wand; he looks like he'll use it, if Angel makes him – Angel doesn't know what that means, if it's a threat or a warning. Connor is a teenager, older, and Angel can see himself in that boy – can see Darla. Harry still cradles him close, as if he's a baby, bent around his child as if he would not let go – no matter what.

Angel wonders if Harry is really holding Connor, behind the curtain of black and silver hair, behind his eyes, what is he doing - what does he see? What has Angel done to inspire such desperation and unwavering loyalty for Harry to hold his son like that?

"They're living years - a lifetime in, in normal time – our time; in the time it takes us to speak, to move, to breath. Think of the dust as a storm, you can see the effects of the storm, of the years upon them, but you can't see the eye of the storm, you can't live the years with them." Sirius doesn't look behind him, and Angel can see that it isn't because he doesn't want to – his wand hand is shaking with a strain Angel is just bringing to grasp.

"So…so what...? We _wait_?" Angel can think of nothing he'd like more then getting his hands on Sahjhan; but he can think of _nothing_ to do with him, no punishment to equal this.

"There isn't any other choice." Sirius whispers, his pain like a physical thing. Angel isn't aware that he makes a movement toward Harry, past Sirius, but he stands in front of Harry all the same – Sirius having let him past; Sirius, who doesn't look.

"I'm sorry." Angel tells Harry, when he can think of nothing else to say.

Connor's eyes open as startlingly blue as the sky meeting the sea and no difference between them, he seems to hear, he looks straight at Angel. He looks almost twenty, Angel thinks, Connor blinks - and for a moment he thinks it's his imagination, that days seem to be passing for his son, this stranger, rather then years.

"When does it stop?" Angel feels as if his words are drops of rain in a sea.

"Soon..." Sirius promises, just as meaningless.

Connor takes a gasping breath –blue eyes clinging to the sight of Angel, as if wanting to tell Angel something – it's the first time Angel has seen either Connor or Harry take a breath.

It's like being slammed into something- or seeing a window break letting in the burning sunlight, when Angel realizes that really Connor is watching him, seeing him –trying to speak to him. It hurts just as badly, but when Harry sighs, Angel realizes what he's seeing; Harry isn't holding Connor anymore, Connor is clutching Harry, not letting go.

"Q-quick, please, help him – I…I think he's _dying_." Connor speaks, voice cracking with the words, so full of energy and life, desperate and pleading. Connor gently lets Harry slide further to the ground, still holding onto him as he falls onto the floor.

Sirius spins around, tears having overfilled his eyes, falling down his cheeks. There is dread there, thick fear that chokes Angel.

"Harry!" Sirius says urgently, kneeling on the ground beside Harry whose face is still turned away, who seems small and frail beneath the black robe falling over him like a death shroud. Angel is already biting into his wrist, tearing flesh, desperate for his blood to well up like a mythical spring of life, of youth.

"What are you doing?" Connor, his son, the stranger kneeling on the other side of Harry, turning his face toward them, asks. Angel hasn't time to answer.

It spills over, as he forces his wrist to Harry's mouth, forcing him to drink.

"No, no you can't!" Connor shrikes, realizing too late what Angel is doing. The boy of eighteen is stronger than any human teenager as he struggles to get Angel away from Harry, but he is young – and foolish and Angel growls at his own son as Sirius helps get Connor away from Harry so Angel can save him.

Harry does drink, slow and reluctant, the blood spilling over his mouth and lips – more blood spilling, Angel fears, then going in - but his eyes open groggily – they are black, black like death, demon eyes.

Those eyes lock onto Angel, and Harry does not seem to recognize him.

Angel is full of hope, of sorrow, and then Harry swallows greedily, teeth biting down painfully as if Angel would snatch his wrist away. Harry growls and it is full of feral knowledge. Angel, about to speak, feels his breath catch in his throat.

"Get out - now!" Connor moves with a swiftness no one of merely mortal blood can match, he forces Sirius out of the room – Sirius is on the defensive but unwilling to outright use his wand, Cordelia goes unspeaking but willingly. Connor turns to Angel, and throws him on the other side of the bed, using leverage and Angel's own unprepared body against him.

" _Out_!" Connor screams at him, the tears doing nothing to hide his absolute fury with Angel. Cordelia pulls at his arm, tugging him toward the door, away from the unknown and what does not make sense - and Angel moves toward her and away from his stranger-son.

Harry growls, blood on his teeth as he rises – there is something both deadly and sensual in the movement, it's hypnotizing, so much so that Angel is only now aware of the pain in his wrist; Harry licks the blood on his lips and his teeth, his focus on Angel as he grins. There is something hungry in that animal look. Connor gets in his way, willingly, boldly, bravely, Angel thinks with dread; fearing what he'll next see, his son killed, slaughtered by this savage animal Harry has become – but Harry only side steps Connor as if he's in the way. Connor is acting as a barrier between Harry and the others, rather then a protector.

"You mustn't, come on – snap out of it!" Connor shoves forward, into Harry's path, snarling wordlessly over his shoulder, his expression a clear warning. Harry huffs and licks his lips, but does not hurt Connor as he tries to move around him.

Angel goes, silent – there is a door to close behind him, and he leans on it, looking to Sirius and his wand. He hears voices beyond, and listens, closing his eyes.

"We don't eat people, remember that rule?" An annoyed growl answered that odd question.

" _No_ , not even the _stupid_ dead ones. You'd never forgive yourself, for one – what…?" Angel hadn't heard anything, but it was clear that Connor had from the way he paused and waited, as if listening. Only then did he continue, obviously expecting to be heard and understood and spoken to.

"You don't want to eat him? We'll its food or fuck, fight or flight, and you'd _never_ …ew, Harry, I don't need to know that." Connor had gotten onto the mattress, where Angel had last seen Harry – but from the calm continuous stream of words, he need not fear for his son. A crooning came from the room, and as Connor was the one speaking – it had to come from Harry.

"Huh, so that idiot is dear old dead Da'? I'd of thought you would've had better taste, for one. Feeling better now? Good, good, god – I could _fucking murder_ him, doing this to you." The crooning became a purr, and Connor laughed at something he alone could apparently hear.

"Hey, alright – hey, hey guys! Uh, Sirius, Cordelia, Ang- er – hm, Dad…? You're safe now, he's got his body back – just, uh, don't bleed into his mouth again – huh? I am being nice! This is me nice, see?" Cordelia shoved into the room- clearly impatient and willing to risk that Connor (this stranger, his son) told the truth and wasn't about to sic what was left of Harry on them; only to see Connor grinning at Harry, in both fake and true pleasure, pointed teeth showed off – Harry, who was stretched over Connor's legs like a big cat, turns to regard them, lazily, with eyes that looked like night filled with emerald stars.

The stranger, _his son_ looked up quickly, it was clear he was caught off guard by their abrupt answer to his call. Connor's true blue eyes locked onto Angel.

"No blood." Connor warned him, voice thick and filled with threat and dread, fingers curling possessively – protectively – into silver twined black hair that fell about Harry's shoulders. It was as if he feared that Angel would take Harry away from him. Or Harry would leave him.

"Angel." Harry greets in a thick drawl, purring falling from his lips.

"Dad..." Connor echoes, shifting uneasily, the word clearly foreign on his tongue, he glances down and away, then back, blue peeking under his lashes as he eyes them.

"Connor…" Angel doesn't know what else to say, he had wanted to watch his son grow up, and who could expect something like this? Connor must hear what he seeks in Angel's voice, for he grins, boyish and shy.

"Yeah, hey, dad….uhm, Harry's told me lots about you, most of it good – I'm sorry about this - I don't really kill people, certainly not you, I've better manners then that – 'sides Harry does that when it needs doing, not that Harry's a murderer, they usually try to kill me – us- first– he raised me, and – you know that, but, I can defend myself – I'm not useless." It comes easier to Connor this time, the words spilling out with relief, like a flood behind a dam.

"Of course not…" Angel reassures softly, amazed at his stranger-son who so clearly needs him, his reassurance, Connor's attention is all on him, studying him, and he catches Harry's look, amused and protective, supporting.

"What happened to you, Harry?" Sirius asks, pained and bewildered, but there is intelligence behind the animalistic demon eyes. Harry answers, even as Connor tenses.

"It turns out mixing wizard and demon blood is _always_ a bad idea." The words are amused and mature, no bitterness is within them, but it is obviously a sour subject with the way Connor curls like a protective shield around Harry.

"I told you so!" Sirius blurts, the response Connor so clearly least expected; Harry alone laughs.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Take one twenty-seven year old, age eighteen years; Harry is forty-five, but as he is a wizard with demon blood, clearly he doesn't look it; except for the silver and black hair, but that has more to do with demon blood then aging.
> 
> I'm sorry, please don't kill me?
> 
> I have issues with Angel being two-hundred and fifty-something, alright?


End file.
